Que voy hacer? Je ne sais pas. Que voy hacer? Je ne sais plus. Que voy hacer? Je suis perdu. Que hora son mi corazon?

I have a family so far away from this spot. This spot. A messy dining room table that has dirty dishes, last week’s work, a French English dictionary, a salt shaker and random electronic cables. This spot. Thousands of miles away I have a mother that would tell me to clean it up. Thousands of miles away I have an older sister that would try not to say anything about this little mess because she knows how I hate being told what to do. I love them with all my heart. I miss them terribly even if I know they wouldn’t approve of this little clutter. But this pain, this longing, these watery eyes are emotions that I have come to see as blessings. Together they are a proof of a very real, selfless, lifelong love that has kept me inspired to reciprocate.

I have a family a lot closer too. Only a few feet away from this spot I have four mothers and one grandmother. I know they feel the same way about this dining room table as my biological elders. They would not approve but luckily I am very capable of hiding it from them. My four African mothers give me a very familiar look whenever I leave our home. They ask me when I’ll come back and where I’m going. Their curiosity is their caring concern. They protect me from what they can and I have nothing, nothing but love and admiration for them. When I get sick they care for me, when they see me limping they ask why, they make me tea and help me in any way they can. I will miss them terribly when my day of departure arrives.

My four African mothers, like my Mexican mother live away from their husbands. One mother lost her husband in an accident, one mother lost her husband to an illness, one mother lives away from her husband for financial reasons. All of these unique tragedies have brought us together. With all of these men gone I have filled a gap as a male role model to their children. It is a huge responsibility that I did not ask for but one that I have become very grateful for.

I cringe every time I hear little Amadou swear knowing he learned it from me. I feel pride when I read with little Sahabo and he actually sounds the words out like I taught him to. I smile when Laminou puts me in check when we play chess. I gladly lend out my books to Djwaira (she is the first in her class, not because of me though). I love that I can make little Sarifa or Sadia stop crying just by just picking them up. 16 year old Aboubakar shares his love life with me and asks for advice. I have two sisters thousands of miles away but here, only a few feet away I have fifteen other siblings. I love every single one of them and it makes me realize something completely new. This revelation will influence future decisions. I don’t know how much my heart will be able to bear living in so many places. I will leave so many loved ones everywhere I go and I’ll begin to stack up all of these new family members all over the world and not know when I’ll see them again. Even in this ever connecting world a Facebook response won’t be enough. I have no idea how I will handle this.

I call my four mothers here my Dadas. Dada in Fulfulde means mama. The Dadas make me breakfast every morning. Its funny, one of the skills I wanted to work on during my service was to improve my cooking skills but they insist on feeding me every morning. Tea and rice, I cut avocadoes and sometimes put eggs or beans to spice it up. I love this breakfast. It constantly reminds me of grandmother’s breakfasts in Mexico. To show my gratitude to my Dadas I usually do one of the following: bring them fruits or veggies when I get back from Meiganga (carrots, lettuce, watermelon, bananas, coconuts, pineapples), every now and then I’ll surprise them with a chicken or a carton of eggs, when I get back from Yaounde I bring them something small but special (last time I brought them a peeler for when they peel potatoes or yams). They have never asked for anything, sometimes they’ll sneakily guide my decisions on what I’ll bring them but they have never, not once, asked for anything.

I am happy here. Living here has been one of the happiest times of my life. This happiness stems from the jokes and good times I spend with my family but more significantly from the lessons I learn from my challenges and quarrels with them. 

 I reward my siblings with money depending on how good their grades are. I told them that I would only agree to this if they pay me money on the bad grades that they get (I used to do this with my father). They agreed. Little Amadou came home with his grades a few days ago and they were not good. His brothers and cousins did great but he only earned 200 CFA. He refused the money and I got angry with him. I told him that if he didn’t accept the money he was not allowed to come in my house until he apologized. For the first few days he ignored me and I him. I decided to tag along with the kids to the creek to read as they washed their clothes. Amadou hurt his arm and I set my ego aside and asked him where it hurt. He refused to tell me and told me that I was not his brother and I should bugger off. It hurt to hear that, I turned into a child for a split moment and retorted, “You’re right, I’m not your brother, what do I care if your arm is broken?!” I walked off swearing under my breath in anger. I think the Dadas saw for what I’m hoping is the first time just how young I still am that day. They also saw their kid, Amadou, openly and severely disrespect me. I have never hit the kids but the Dadas do it whenever they see fit. Amadou got it bad that night and still did not apologize. I knew he wouldn’t, I know this little trouble maker pretty well so I have punished him way worse. Everyone but him has been playing Game Boy, watching movies and playing with the blocks in my living room. It has slowly been breaking him. He knows he’s one of my favorites, he is also much loved by the volunteers near me so I told him I would inform the other volunteers how much he disrespected me and that they should not talk to him. Finally I told him I would not forgive him until he wrote me an apology with a signature. He has not done so yet but I know he will and when he does I will give him my apology too. I didn’t mean what I said to him and I’ll remind him that I will forever be his older brother. I’ll apologize for my impatience and pray that he’ll learn from my mistake.

With family comes all of the ups and downs. I know not all families are perfect but could it be that the line between love and hate gradually shifts slowly removing hate all together? Amadou is a bright kid, I know he'll apologize. I mean how could he not? I learned that lesson when my older sister apologized to me. Here are some pics of my family.

 Yaouba scratching his head as Ibrahim approves of tonight's dinner

 Represent

 Most of these pictures were not taken by me, from what the kids leave on my camera I have noticed that Aissatou loves self-portraits.

 Bouba and Oumarou

 I'm hoping Sahabo becomes an engineer and thanks me later for teaching him how to do this.

 Amadamadou and me before our bickering

 "A meat lover's medium sized please, wait, what do you mean you don't deliver to Meidougou?"

The Dada's have agreed to making sure these two don't get married unless I approve of their suitors.

April 1, 2012

So many people telling me one way, So many people telling me to stay, Never had time to have my mind made up, Caught in a motion that I don't wanna stop.

This is my 25^th entry on this web journal. I have shared a lot with you. I have grown up quite a bit in the last year. Increments of maturity have been built through kilometers of running, sentences written, failed projects, enlightening conversations, new relationships, traveling and all sorts of crazy experiences. This first year as a truly independent man has been documented to the world through this journal.

For those of you who didn’t notice, each one of my journal entries was inspired by a different song but titled by my favorite lyric of that song. This collection of 25 paints a self portrait. I have shared a total of two short stories, one collection of college essays, one self interview, one letter to future PCVs, a dozen poems and the rest very personal articulated journal entries. Here is the list from the very beginning. You’ll discover that I named my web journal, “The Wait of My Words,” from the very first song. It is one of my favorite songs ever written by one of my favorite bands but I tweaked it for a more optimistic direction.

1-      The Weight of my Words – Kings of Convenience

2-      No Rain – Blind Melon

3-      Neighborhood #3 – Arcade Fire

4-      Smoke & Mirrors – RJD2

5-      All These Things That I’ve Done – The Killers

6-      In My Place – Coldplay

7-      Stay Together for the Kids – Blink 182

8-      Wipe Those Prints and Run – Beulah

9-      Sun it Rises – Fleet Foxes

10-  Still D.R.E. – Dr. Dre

11-  Teardrop – Jose Gonzalez

12-  Things I Don’t Remember – Ugly Casanova

13-  Make You Feel Better – Red Hot Chili Peppers

14-  Blue Ridge Mountains – Fleet Foxes

15-  (It’s a) Departure – The Long Winters

16-  Float On – Modest Mouse

17-  This Temporary Life – Death Cab for Cutie

18-  Hurt Me Soul – Lupe Fiasco

19-  Tightrope – Yeasayer

20-  Stability – Death Cab for Cutie

21-  We Will Become Silhouettes – The Postal Service

22-  Sabali – Amadou & Mariam

23-  Michicant – Bon Iver

24-  Service Bell – Grizzly Bear & Feist

25-  Burning – Whitest Boy Alive

 What have I learned? Where do I belong? What are my plans for the future? Well if you listen to these songs you might get an answer. They won’t be very specific but you’ll understand the emotions I’m going to through to construct my next direction. Click on each song to take you to the entry that inspired it.

My five favorite are: 14, 22, 17, 18 and 9. I’m hoping that the next 25 journal entries will make an even better playlist, we’ll see.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

March 4, 2012

Let the others do what they do.

The B(ache)ry

I entered a bakery,

It smelled of flour,

Sweet strawberry jam,

Sugary greatness,

A warm scent of bliss.

I felt welcomed.

There were sweet tarts,

Fruity treats,

Frosty cakes,

Honey on soft velvet.

You gave me

Six tasty delicacies.

Each one a moment.

Each one too short.

Each one intense

Each one beautiful.

Each one succulent.

Each one soft.

You awakened me.

The flavor shook me.

Each bite tore me open.

Your flavors weakened me.

But the aftertaste inspired.

When these treats were done,

Completely gone forever,

I realized that you were still there.

I was awake with my eyes closed.

So I opened them.

You were not the treats,

You were the bakery,

and I was not finished,

But the closing hours forbade me.

Carlos J. Fernandez-Torres

Meiganga, Cameroon

February 14, 2012

February Baby

Inside this frame,

A set of six photographs.

Nesting new hopes.

I love this little stranger,

And will do so forever.

Nap handsome newborn.

Intrigue in your stare,

Awakened and curious.

Nephew, you are too far away.

I love you,

And can’t wait to see you.

No one means more right now.

Innocent little baby,

Ascending into our future,

Nothing will stop you.

Inspiring grandparents,

Amazing parents,

No excuses for you buddy.

In my soul, En mi

Alma. V mojej duši.

Newly and eternally yours,

Your February Uncle

February Uncle

February 23, 2012

Meidougou, Cameroon

Michigan Jones

A boy picks up a map,

He studies the details.

In his magnificent mind

every grid marks a red ‘X’.

There is so much to learn.

With a hat he goes on a green adventure.

His name is his purpose.

His vision goes beyond his binoculars.

His precision is genius.

His persona dances with charisma.

This boy returns with treasures.

Finally, his first expedition is complete.

With new friends,

Maturing ideas,

All sorts of flickering futures,

He realizes that no trouble is grave.

His discoveries are greater than his treasures.

He plans a new escapade.

A synapse explodes,

Chemicals spill,

he disposes his map and tries on a new hat,

Only behind his eyes he is fine.

Loved ones begin to disappear.

his kidnapped mind claims a dark exploration.

his throat turns into a black hole.

he covers his eyes with mirrors facing out.

All noise sounds like a replaying ice cream truck.

Like his last hat, friends get thrown away.

But none of that matters,

he claims this new quest inevitable.

After selling his treasures for candy,

After smearing his debt to his soul,

After shitting on his own mother,

After burying his discoveries alive,

After absolutely everything lost,

he cries for a new and brighter voyage.

Rumpled up with red x’s,

he picks up his previous map.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

February 29, 2012

Meidougou, Cameroon

                                                      

I was unafraid, I was a boy, I was a tender age

 I've been writing a lot lately; journal entries, short stories, poems, an impossibly daunting screenplay. Its cathartic and balances me. I think to myself how crazy it is that I'm actually pushing myself to sit down and write these out but then I realize that I really can't hold it in anymore. Its a good feeling. Anyway I think this one is done and I feel confident enough to show it to the world. A big thanks to Emma and Lindsay for the editing.

It Wasn't Yet the Spring

A song triggered two memories at once. Like a gun shot it was deafening and claimed all of his attention.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to check out these books,” Farah replied with her soft voice.

His vulnerable eyes exposed the urge to get her out of the library as fast as possible. How the hell did I not see her walk in here he thought. Without saying another word he pulled out her account on the computer. It was almost impossible to not shout, scream and confess his newfound hatred for her. He reined his pain back forcing himself to scan the books under the laser.

BEEP One book down.

BEEP Two.

He could feel her awkward stare.

“So I went furniture shopping the other day,” she desperately tempted him to reply.

Why is she telling me this? She knows how much I wanted to go with her? He thought.

“Good for you.” He anxiously tried to appear indifferent.

He unlocked the security within the books, opened one of them and placed the receipt inside.

“They’re due on the 14th.” This time he managed to say it indifferently.

Farah walked out wanting to cry, feeling unfulfilled and even more confused with what had just happened. She walked outside and the winter freezing gust slapped her rosy face. Crying, she paced quickly to her car.

Raul’s second memory followed like a lightening strike.

Raul and Farah were standing underneath some sycamore trees. Spring was unfolding the flowers in the park.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad!” Farah frustratingly retorted.

“How the fuck were you not? You came to see me at work!? Just three days after you chose him over me!? THREE DAYS!” He shouted.

“I missed you, it was not as easy as you think to let you go!” she begged for his understanding.

Raul looked at her, she looked sincere and even confused. She looked back with watery eyes.

She softly continued, “You know my sister drove me to the library that day, when I walked in the car I bawled. I realized I made a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was a mistake to come see me!” he snapped.

“No Raul! It was a mistake to choose David over you.”

Raul had no idea what to say. A part of him wanted to kiss her, to hold her again. He wanted to feel and fall back in love with her, he thought that maybe that impulse was a sign he was still in love with her. The other half of his soul knew better. The pain is not worth it, I’m not capable of trusting her again, he realized.

“Is that why you asked me here today? To put me through another torture chamber? Farah, how do you expect me to trust you!? I gave you EVERYTHING I had, you know more about me than anyone!”

“And you do too!” she quickly interrupted.

“What couch did you buy?” It seemed as though Raul was changing the subject.

“The one you loved so much. The one that you called perfect!” she answered.

“And you fucked him on it didn’t you!”

She started to cry. He almost felt bad.

“I’m not perfect Raul. You know what I’ve been through with him. You know he asked me to marry him, don’t act like you don’t know about my miscarriage with him! Try to understand! I had just met you, I didn’t know I was going to fall so hard for you. I miscalculated, I thought my history with David overweighed my love for you but I was wrong!” She defended.

Raul was too stubborn to put himself in her shoes for even half of a second. He didn’t care, his heart still throbbed with pain. He felt as if the wound didn’t even begin to heal itself. He began to question his decision to come meet her, what was I thinking? I was not ready for this. Farah looked at him, held out her hands and with her soft fingers she gently grabbed his hands.

“I love you but I cannot say that I regret what I did, I had to go back to him to realize that it was you who I truly wanted.”

He looked to his side and stared at the thawing pond. Was his heart too beginning to thaw out? He didn’t know what to think.

“I have never been so miserable in my life. You made me feel the happiest I have ever been. I was invincible, like Superman. Being with you showed me a part of myself that I never knew; it showed me a part of the world that I never knew existed. I was so ignorantly in love with you that I did not consider what it would be like without you. I’ll admit that what we had was short but it was the most intense love I have ever given or accepted from anyone.”

“I feel the same way.” She interrupted again.

“You have to stop interrupting me,” he joked.

She laughed and added, “It was you who interrupted me, when you came into my life you stopped me from what all I planned, everything I had I paused to be with you.”

Half of his lip lifted, his crooked smile made her feel better.

“You are so beautiful Farah, you stop traffic with your everything. You are the kindest person I know, you’re gentle but sexy and you use it against me to win all of our quarrels. I probably still love you but I…”

Her phone started to ring. She ignored it for the first time in her life.

He wanted so badly to kiss her, he remembered that she had the softest lips he had ever kissed. He missed her perfume, she wore the perfect sweaters to cover but accentuate her breasts. He longed for the times where they just stared at each other after sex. He missed holding her hand in the cinema. He missed sliding and tickling and teasing her by gliding his fingers on her bare back. She moved in closer to his face.

He did the same.

Time stopped and he filled the space with his lips. Their eyes closed and he felt his heart begin to shed all of the despair. He glided his tongue gently through her lips and released his doubt. He slid his fingers behind her head and felt her hair tickle his skin. His other hand grabbed her hips and pulled her closer. Her arms wrapped over his neck and tied him to her. He allowed himself to experience their intertwined love and once again felt fulfilled.

They stopped and he opened his eyes. Only an inch away from her face he said, “I can’t do this.” He untangled his fingers from her hair and she pushed away from him confused.

“I am incapable of trusting you, Farah,” he continued, “Fuck this, how can you be so selfish?”

Once more she began to cry realizing that she would never have him ever again.

“Don’t call me again," he said walking away. It was definitely immature. Raul had never fallen so deeply in love like that in his life. He wanted her to feel pain, his rejection was his revenge. He wanted her to feel even half of the hurt he had undergone. It was clear that the line between love and hate had been permanently blurred.

The song that placed him in these two memories ended. Raul realized and regretted for the first time after three years that his action was selfish, immature and pointless. He now knew that they experienced the same amount of pain but his revenge caused an imbalance. He felt terrible, he wanted to fly across the world to apologize. Was it too late to say sorry, after so much time did it even matter?

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

February 28, 2012

Meidougou, Cameroon

Cherrie je te faire un gros bissou o bien je sais pas

Is Africa romantic? The constant sweat, the dust in the air, feuds fueling negotiations, the odd body odor, there are real reasons that make me realize that romance doesn’t reveal itself to me. But then again… what inspires artists to make such magnificent different pieces than the rest of the world? What is it?

Well let’s take a look at the current scene right now. I’m sitting on my bed, jamming my fingers against the keys of my laptop. I’m in my boxers and feeling overheated. The room is too dark to describe but in the distance there are cobwebs, cockroaches and dust on every doorknob. This scene is not African but let me close my eyes. Let me remember some recent memories.

I’m on a beach, staring over the seemingly infinite reflections of the Atlantic Ocean. A relaxed fisherman waits while the wild wind awakens his senses. I turn around and see children dancing. The music is directly synced to their souls, they bounce and twist releasing all of their insecurities. Bliss is in their beats, their cheek bones stab the air as their smiling teeth beam back the sunlight onto the waves. 

I’m in a crowded bus. Staring, possessed by the passing by papaya trees. A child conducts his stick controlling a precious tire he found somewhere. He rolls and rolls and rolls until he runs into a ram. A man sits outside of his compound expressing salutations to all of the souls he knows so soundly. A woman walks with complete balance; her composure is as perfect as her posture. Her steadiness exhales patience, the basin balanced on the base of her head never dribbles, not once.

I’m on top of a mountain. Gravity balances a beautiful boulder on its bigger brother. Rolling hills remain silent for millenniums simply waiting for the sun to rise and set. The air is hot but the shade is serene, the ruins radiate tranquility. The view is remarkable, I’m at the peak but I already cannot wait to return.

Romance cannot be released relentlessly. It should be a rare moment that reveals your life’s road. A revelation, a discovery, a moment of clarity it will be. Each divided land has its own fingerprint. Men have drawn the borders but the lands have colored the people. Does Cameroon hide its romance? Any soul lucky enough to experience the magic that this land exerts will find it. As a traveler I cannot say that Cameroon’s romance is more romantic than any other but I can conclude that its uniqueness has inspired me.

As a traveler it is my duty to claim each land equal, every country caches its romance, Cameroon does this like any other country. Every state can induce every state of mind. Every nation can strip your soul naked. Every realm releases a very real romance that will remind you of why you’re alive. Come to Cameroon and you will find your own memento.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

February 9, 2012

I’ve got it covered with cans of food, filtered water and pictures of you and I’m not coming out until this is all over.

 

Think about the connections you make with people. How have you formed your friendships? How have you nurtured your relationships? What led some of them to deteriorate? Who amongst your friends are coming or came to your wedding? Who are you going to share a meal with in a few minutes? Which of your Facebook friends would go to your funeral? We are social beings. Our relationships help define ourselves. They are there for us and we reciprocate. Colleagues, family members, neighbors, lovers, co-workers, childhood friends, they all help mold the way you see the world.

Today I lost a friend. He was the first friend I made here in Meidougou. I celebrated the 2011 New Years with him. He took me to the best bar and we danced without the countdown. I had such a good time that I remember looking at the clock in my cell phone and realizing that I missed the first three minutes of the New Year. Peace Corps selected him as my Community Host, a role that he took very seriously. He introduced many community members to me and translated practically every conversation I had for the first few months. His name was Mustapha, a 23 year old man who owned the only pharmacy in Meidougou.

When I heard he had passed away I wasn’t surprised. A few weeks ago he lost half of his weight. He had been sick on and off for practically my entire first year here. I didn’t realize it was so serious until a few weeks ago. I should have realized much earlier the gravity of his situation. I messed up. I should have insisted harder to take him to the nearest hospital. I knew he was lying when he told me he was feeling a little better. The 2000 FCFA I gave him the other day wasn’t enough. I know I had the means to prevent this. Fuck. He was sick for a year though, I'm positive it was a very serious illness that the health care system was unable to handle.

There are an obscene amount of problems in our little planet. We turn our heads when it gets too real, well at least the people who can afford to do. I know none of you know this stranger and realistically you have no reason to care but this is not stopping me from wanting to share who he was and what his death has made me realize. I have roughly 900 and some odd number friends on Facebook. This man, Mustapha, was not one of them. Not because we weren’t friends but because he couldn’t afford a computer. He couldn’t afford many things. He once asked to borrow 5000 FCFA and I selfishly refused.

Mustapha was raised here in the Adamawa region of Cameroon. I don’t know anything from his childhood but I know what he has done recently. He made a living with his pharmacy and also made money selling cell phone credit. He is one of the rare Cameroonians that actually volunteered. Every time UNICEF came to do a mosquito net campaign he worked for free. Anytime UNHCR asked him to distribute food to the refugees he would do what he could. He understood very clearly what it meant to be part of a community. He left his daughter a wonderful example of what it means to be selfless. He also helped me and other Peace Corps Volunteers with our projects. He recently helped a PCV empower a women’s group, he helped them to save money every week. They now own a fridge where they sell yogurt to the community.

His friendship has made me contemplate all of my friendships. It has made me think of the quality of a friend I have been. Lucky for me most of them are conveniently listed on Facebook. But how many of these friendships have I continued to nurture? These social networks have completely redefined relationships. I have a unique story with everyone who I’ve friended. Together all of these little interactions have turned me into me. Surely they will not all attend my wedding or funeral but we are nonetheless acquaintances, acquaintances in a global community. I now know better then ever what it means to be in a community because of Mustapha’s example. His life has inspired me to do a little project. I want to be a better social being in this continuously changing social ecosystem. What do I have to do to accomplish this?

I went to Mustapha’s family’s compound earlier tonight. I bought his mother sugar so she could provide her guests with sweetened tea (a custom here in Cameroon). When I arrived no one was there. They all traveled to the small village he died in. It is Muslim tradition to be buried the same day one dies and in the same place. Mustapha was taken there this morning to see a traditional healer, his family got tired of the medical center failing on his health care. Unfortunately there was nothing the traditional healer could do either. I waited with a small group of people for the family to return. When they arrived the women cried and howled. In unison they let their tears fall onto the ground. I remember when his mother got off of the motorcycle she almost collapsed. When the villagers heard the family return they all gathered in the compound. All of the women screamed and cried together inside while the men mourned outside by the fire. We stayed silent. It was surreal. It was surreal to see so many people come pay their respects. The mourning period will last for the next few days. I wanted to cry. Listening to the women’s pain struck me so deeply that I too wanted to collapse. They held nothing back, they cried so loudly that Mustapha would hear them. The influential figures of the village stayed until midnight. They embraced the mother with very real condolences. Meidougou lost a selfless soul today.

I now know how I can accomplish being a better social being. Here in Meidougou I will spend more time getting to know my fellow villagers better. I vow to not just hastily pass by them without a conversation. The northern Cameroonian way is to greet everyone individually (trust me, I am not exaggerating). Here, everyone spends at least a minute to greet everyone. I used to find this annoying but I now understand. This tradition has inspired me to greet every single friend I have on Facebook. I want to practice this at least once with every single one of you. I want to improve how I balance my cyber social life with my actual one by using the Cameroonian way. This is what Mustapha’s life has inspired me to do.

I want to not only dedicate this entry in his memory but I also am dedicating my second year of service to him too.

Merci Mustapha, pour tous que tu ma montré.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

January 12, 2012

Nothing but Crippling Doubt

Nothing but Crippling Doubt

I vote for PEACE

called the divided tribes.

But in this land stability

equals submission.

These villagers pose as

wide eyed citizens.

Posing

because their private ballots stalls

carry public holes on their walls.

I refuse to vote

whisper none united voices.

Fear is braided with doubt

Here, only the "Fou" shouts

And here we live,

in the land of giant shrimps.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

Para mi abuelo

I have so many faults.

Like the earth I tremble.

I break and separate.

I get over heated and explode.

I flood my static with tears.

I self destruct and

and

rebuild. And

I know you did too. And

you planted seeds. And

started from itch

to teach your kids how to truly be

rich.

You are half of your son

and a quarter of me.

And. You came to my sister for her wedding day.

I was too young to see clearly.

When will you come see me?

Too young to know what you built after the

scratch. But you sculpted it through your son.

And your son became your sun.

And he became mine.

And I still want to speak to you,

Even though I have no idea what’d I say.

To your statue I’ll continue to pray

in my times of earthquakes, hurricanes and decay.

With only the few memories of you,

hoy is not today,

Carlos J. Fernandez-Torres

Left to Right

When I watched I stared.

When I heard I listened.

After staring I painted,

After listening I sang.

The portrait contains what keeps me

restrained,

I cautiously combined the colors to convey the

pain.

But my sacrifices are not all cold

rain.

For the song that I sing,

expresses absolutely no

sting.

Because even though you can’t see it

it is brighter than yellow.

This song is my left.

It is me not leaving.

My painting is my right.

It is not always correct.

Right to Left.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

So I think I can solve all problems by myself well never mind, never mind, never mind, never mind, never mi-i-i-i-i-ind

Dear future PCVs,

I regret that I didn’t get to spend enough time with you guys, it was especially rough that I was not able to watch all of your introductions to the staff. I honestly think I didn’t have enough time to express to you what trainee life is going to be like. I remember talking a lot about life as PCV and not enough as a PCT. Well, the purpose of this letter is to tell you all what I feel I was unable to tell you with my short time with you regarding the experiences you will have as a trainee.

I want you guys to hold something close to your hearts in your moments of what seems like weakness. I’m referring to the moments when you wet the photographs of your family with the tears that slide off your nose. I’m talking about the days when you re-ask yourselves the questions you once seemed to be so sure about. These days, they are an uphill struggle, they are also days that you will experience a lot throughout your first three months. They are not easy.

You will only get through these days by being there for each other. The beauty about the strangers to your sides is that you share one infinitely binding trait. You all have the traveler’s soul. You have all sacrificed not eating your mother’s food to try someone else’s mother’s food. Not because you don’t like your mom’s food but because you are compelled to see the way other mothers around the world express their love to their children. You have the courage to experience life’s several emotions in a different way. Always remember that you are connected by the inspirations and aspirations you share.

Sometimes training can be exhausting not to mention confusing. You will discover that you won’t be able to count the number of challenges you’ve experienced in the first week with your hands. You will inevitably run into very difficult obstacles. French will be the majority of the bricks that construct these seemingly unbreakable walls. Just remember it is not only conversations that bind humans together. You can connect by showing your host brother that you too can juggle a soccer ball or know how to pretend that you can remove your thumb. Instead of using those fingers to count your challenges, use them to throw a Frisbee to your new friends (Cameroonians and Trainees).

Only together will you guys thrive. Use your combination of diverse expertise to answer questions anthropologists have been asking for decades. Answer these difficult questions together. Get your mind’s hands dirty by asking why Africa has a very different struggle than the United States, the Cameroonian rainforest is the perfect environment to have these reflections. I witnessed your inspiration simply by the way you guys gazed out of your windows on our bus ride to Hotel Jeuvance. Expose that inspiration to one another because that will be the engine to your inevitable successes.

After serving as a PCV in Cameroon for almost a year I cannot tell you that you will not fail. At least one of your projects will fail. You will at least lose the trust of one person. You will lose yourself at least one time. You will forget why you are here at least one time. These are facts that will lead you to want to return to the arms of your loved ones. You will catch yourself contemplating the kind of hypothetical thoughts you would ask on your flight home. They will sound like, “well at least I tried,” or, “at least I got to eat a mango on top of a mango tree,” or, “at least I got to see what development work is really about.” Instead of ending the sentence that starts with, “at least I,” try asking yourself, “What am I at most capable of in this very situation?” Throw your intellectual and spiritual limits away in the same way that Cameroonians throw away plastic. Throw them on the ground and keep climbing, but remember to always do it together.

Life as a trainee is mostly an uphill battle. The prospective you must always keep is the view you’ll get from the top. But let me remind you again, it is much easier overcoming the inevitable obstacles together. Your new friends will become family. Good luck and I hope to see all of you when you swear in.

Sept. 28, 2011

Carlos J. Fernandez-Torres

All the world’s ills sitting on chrome 24inch wheels, like that.

If you asked me one year ago why I joined the Peace Corps, I would have or probably did give a very superficial answer.

“I couldn’t find a job.”

“None of the internships that liked me paid anything worthwhile.”

“I am not ready to go back to school.”

“I gotta get back to seeing the world.”

These are the normal answers I gave. That’s right, none of my answers to this question mention anything about actually volunteering. What is a volunteer? Why is it important to volunteer? What does a good volunteer (international or domestic) actually accomplish?

I have always known I wanted to live the majority of my life as an expatriate. The friends that I have connected with the most throughout my life have been the people with the traveler’s spirit. They are people with actual ambitions to try something new, to live somewhere different. Expatriates (well a good chunk of them anyways) tend to have this spirit. Sure I have been comfortable in Mexico and the US but I never truly felt like I belonged. I belong with people like me but from different places. Peace Corps was just a way to jump start my return to traveling, not to actually volunteer. It was completely a selfish reason.

However… my reasons for staying in Cameroon are completely different. My first year back living overseas has reminded me of not the traveler’s spirit, but that of the volunteer’s. Thank God I have reconnected with this very fundamental necessity.

Let me list you some reasons of why volunteers are needed:

-When the earthquake struck Port au Prince, citizens actually believed it was the apocalypse. They waited for Jesus to show up.

-There is an ongoing war that is compared to WWII going on in the Democratic Republic of Congo. They say the war has ended but then why and how is it that people don’t even know what the concept of free will is there.

-When Hurricane Katrina wreaked havoc on New Orleans people compared the city to a third world country.

-What is said to be the most prosperous region in the world (Scandinavia) has recently had an unfathomable attack on innocent people by one of its own citizens.

In every community that the sun light reaches there are challenges waiting to be overcome. One does not have to be rich in order to contribute. If he or she has the will to help, the sense of unity to contribute, the selfless desire to proudly overcome that challenge, then they are qualified to be a volunteer. I am not referring to Peace Corps Volunteers merely volunteers. The community does not have to be in a developing country in order to have volunteers.

Why am I here? Why have I stayed this long? because there are challenges here in Meidougou. I am a member of this community now, not just that, but I am a very unique member of this community. I am an outsider who has sacrificed time away from his own family to help out in any way I can.

Meidougou has so many challenges; I don’t even know where to start. There are not enough teachers, not enough nurses, the gov’t cannot pay the salaries of their social workers, people do not trust each other, they do not see the benefits of volunteering, poverty is rampant, any type of health issue you can think of hides in concessions all over the town. Problems, problems, problems and the lack of will and solidarity to turn them into solutions.

Why am I here? To do my part. I signed up for this and damn it I am going to do everything I am capable of to tackling the infinite number of problems that plague my new home. I must never forget to do this wherever I live in the future. Volunteering is necessary because it is the action of compassion, unity, courage and hard work. Volunteering is a humbling action that every capable citizen of the world should consider. Living in an impoverished nation like Cameroon has constantly exposed me to the consequences of poverty and fear, consequences that exist all over the world.

Now turn off your computers and sail your selfless soul.

Carlos Jesus Fernandez-Torres

September 15, 2011

The glass is full, the glass is broke

A few days ago I saw a volunteer say goodbye to a post-mate. Sometimes a volunteer will be placed in the same town, allowing them to work together for the limited time they have. Post-mates more than not end up getting very close. Together they get to be the intertwined string that forms a rope.

When the volunteer said goodbye to his post-mate he had to hide his overflowing watery eyes. The woman wrapped around his arms let hers flow. They became more than friends during the short time they were allowed together. They are now lifetime friends. Whenever they reunite in the future they will experience overwhelming joy. Their conversations will reignite their souls from the connected memories of their shared humbling experiences.

How do I know this will happen? How am I so confident?

Although these two specific people I’m referring to does not include me, I did experience the same heartbreak two months ago. Recently I too had to experience saying goodbye to one of my post-mates. I had the rare pleasure of attending her gonging-out ceremony. This is the ceremony when volunteers officially become RPCVs, a title that she will wear with pride for the rest of her life. During the ceremony the attendees get the opportunity to say a few words regarding their service. When I stood up to recite the speech I had prepared for her I was unable to speak. I was too afraid of tearing up. I had to cut my words in half, something my post-mate did not deserve, for she deserved every word I wanted to dedicate to her.

These are the kinds of bonds you form when you serve. Volunteers share everything from near death experiences to preparing meals together that it becomes nearly impossible to not love your peers. They have your back and you have theirs. You become colleagues as well. You bounce ideas off each other for community projects. The team you inevitably form exponentially improves your work.

There are days when volunteers need what we call, ‘mental health days.’ These are the days when you want to go “home.” These are the days when you break down from the nearly impassible obstacles. These are the days when you want to close yourself from the country you convince yourself everyday you belong in. These are the days when you need, your post-mate.

Together you will share beers and tears, reciprocate respect and trust, and organize time wasting activities. Your post-mate is the kid on the other side of the see-saw, keeping you up and helping you down. You guide each other through relationships, losses, longings, pain, accomplishments, everything.

It was not easy saying good-bye, but it was a ‘good’ bye because of the unforgettable experiences we now share. I want to dedicate this entry is for every volunteer that has ever had to experience this loss, but indescribable gain of friendship.

For you will continue to be post-mates in this ever connecting world.

Carlos J. Fernandez-Torres

September 2, 2011

Alright, don't worry even if things end up a bit too heavy

Carlos, what do you want to do for the rest of your life?

Travel?

Why travel? Why the question mark?

Because I’ve been doing it for most of my life and because I’m not completely sure about that answer.

Do you feel good about that answer?

I do, I like learning new things. When you travel, that tends to happen.

When you didn’t travel, did you learn new things?

Well of course. During the times I was alone I learned, during the multiple conversations I had with good friends too.

So technically, if you lived in one spot you would learn new things too, maybe you should find another reason or defend it with a clearer explanation.

It is something I’m used to. Lets go back to the original question, I like traveling because I get to see the world. The world is a fascinating place, you do not discover the world when you stay in one town your whole life. Sure there are countries that offer most types of climates and terrains but not languages or food.

But when you eat at restaurants you order the same things anyways. If you stayed in the country that was your favorite you could just do that, couldn’t you?

I guess, but sometimes a conversation with a new friend that I met in a different location will encourage me to try something new. Sometimes that something new is better. So in a sense, I want to keep traveling to see which is the best, or simply to keep looking for something better.

Okay, so I guess its safe to say that you want to travel for the rest of your life. Are there more goals on the original question?

I want to serve people. Mostly the people who are looking to be helped. People who are looking to improve their lives for the better by experiencing something different.

So technically they don’t even have to be poor, why do you want to serve people?

First of all, poor is a stupid word. I’m positive that in the eyes of some billionaires I would be considered poor. I don’t consider the dadas in my concession to be poor and they live in a very “poor” country. Poor can mean bad quality, people with low incomes don’t necessarily have bad quality lives. I have met several people who may or may not make more money than I do and are generally cleaner, more respectful, more giving and genuinely good people. That doesn’t mean that they are “poor.” So yes, I do want to just help people who want to be helped. I just have to make sure I’m qualified to help them.

Okay, it seems that you are pretty confident about that. What is it that you want to be qualified in, in order to help people who want to improve their lives?

I’m not sure. Living here for a while has exposed me to some problems that may (or may not) be leading people to a crash. There are an abundance of health issues here. But then I get into conversations with some friends here that tell me public restrooms in the U.S. are no cleaner (germs wise) than a public restroom here. Or that washing your hands for 30 seconds in the U.S. really doesn’t do anything more than what one would think (other than waste precious water). And to be honest, the biggest health problems in the U.S. seem to be psychological ones, there seems to be less of that in “developing” countries. I don’t know which type of health problem I would rather have but I think I have an idea of which type of health problem I would rather be in the process of helping.

So you want to go into health?

Actually I take that back, I don’t know which one I would rather be involved with. But to answer your question, no, I don’t want to be in health. Personally, I don’t think I’m that great of an example of somebody mentally and physically healthy.

Soo, you want to help improve people’s lives, you want to travel and you don’t want to work in health?

Correct.

You have told a lot of people that you are thinking about staying in development or diplomacy, sometimes you even mention business.

I’m pretty set on choosing one of these three. I do think it’s a pipe dream but sometimes I dream about writing screenplays for a living. They would be films on the world’s… problems. So I would say one of those four. Traveling has exposed me to several of the world’s inefficiencies. I think there is a lot of money in improving those inefficiencies. That’s where the business idea comes from. But I’ve never been good at handling money (at least money that is mine), I don’t think I would be a very good investor either though. Sometimes I think I’m good at settling disputes but I don’t think that’s what diplomacy is. Diplomacy, at least these days, seems like shopping in the local market here in Meidougou. Everybody is just trying to get the best deal for themselves while trying to rip the other person off. I thought modern economics solved that problem but people aren’t seeing the benefits of cooperation. So if diplomacy is like business, I think I better stay out of it.

It seems like you have ruled out two. Looks like you’re either going to become a screenplay writer or a… international development worker (?) ?

Yeah, looks like I’m going to be poor for a long time too.

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

I love you, I love you, oh brother of mine

Its funny, I was in Africa when Bin Laden struck the Twin Towers and I am in Africa again when he was killed. I was 10 years younger, 14 years old. I was so far away from New York. I remember being so ignorant to the attacks. I was playing video games and my friend Taz came into the room telling us what had happened. I didn’t even know what the Twin Towers were so I kept playing Smash Bros.

When it started hitting me that this event was a much bigger deal than I had thought I started being more observant to what was going on. I went to a very diverse school. We had a student named Muhammad. He praised what happened to the towers. We had a student from Queens, New York who was shaken and told us all of his friends were fine. Our history teacher who was from Ohio took a day off to discuss what had happened. People were calling Bin Laden a mad genius for the way he turned the tables on the United States. I was not in the U.S. on 9/11 but I know one thing for sure. In Ethiopia I saw mixed opinions and I’m sure there was only one opinion on American soil: revenge.

I am now 10 years older, 24. I was told by my friend Kelsey that Bin Laden was killed as I was ready to extend my sleep that morning. I instinctively jumped up and ran towards the computer to read the news myself. It was true; Bin Laden was in fact… gone. Finally. I took a Peace Corps car that morning back to my village (I was in Ngaoundere for a meeting and banking). During the car ride we discussed what the death of Bin Laden meant for the U.S., for the world.

I remember before the Obama/McCain election I had a discussion with a friend on my floor of why I supported Obama. I told Aimee that living overseas exposed me to the absolute hatred the international community had for the United States. I told her that Obama’s victory would single handedly change the opinion of not millions but billions. She told me she respected me less for that opinion. The truth is she had never left the United States (and probably hasn’t yet either). There was no way of making her understand my point of view. Another truth is that the majority of Americans of whom I have met consider taking a cruise to the Bahamas leaving the country

The truth is I myself was once part of that demographic. I too once hated the United States. I realize now it was because I did not understand what the U.S. stands for. I now understand that ignorance is the first step to understanding something new. The truth is, I was young when I met people who praised Bin Laden’s actions. Aimee only got to see them cheering and burning American flags on CNN, she did not get to speak with them.

Obama did change everything. I cannot tell you enough how many Cameroonians I have met that praise Obama and America when I tell them I am from the United States. There are little children and adults who wear Obama t-shirts, holographic Obama belt buckles, Obama key chains or even Obama underwear! Obama’s victory gave millions of people hope for a (somewhat functional) democracy. Personally I don’t think the timing of the Arab Revolution starting directly after Obama’s victory is a coincidence.

Bin Laden is gone. Peace Corps and the American Embassy warned all of the Peace Corps Volunteers not to celebrate publicly the death of Bin Laden. They said it could potentially put us in danger. If I were in Niger, Morocco, Egypt or maybe Pakistan then maybe I would be in danger. But here in Cameroon, Cameroonians who actively sought my opinion praised his death. Some even told me they felt safer for it. Of course some also think that his death is a lie.

Bin Laden is gone, Arabs are demanding that their voices are heard, European help is being sought to remove oppressive dictators, African leaders are uniting to solve African challenges, progressive developing countries like Brazil are learning from the mistakes of developed countries’ welfare programs because they are now rich enough to provide it, the information age is opening the minds of the planet, more and more poor people are being empowered and educated, and people are calling this the end of the world? I don’t think so. This is without a doubt one of the best times to be alive. The way I see it, the world has never been falling apart. It never does. It has been putting itself together since the beginning of time. It is always the best time to be alive, as long as we all do our parts to help put it together.

May 10, 2011

Somehow we'll make it because that's what we do

African Night

Good night

The radiant rain releases a rusty aroma right into my memories

As the melodic tunes bounce into my ear drums

Thoughts swing back and forth in my mind

I stare at the screen, the keys feel abnormally hot.

Sitting on a cushion I bought with my own money

I smell the scent of the freshly finished cooked meal floating into my nostrils

I write this collection of contemplations

A fly gets caught in a web, it buzzes its last bad byes

Great night, good night!

April 17, 2011

Civil Storm

Storm on the war

Fulfill the feeling

Stealing what remains.

Stained where it hurts.

Dirt on your face,

Trace where it came from.

Drums in the background

Around the corner store.

Doors are slamming shut

But is it the storm?

Adore what is lost,

Cost of what is missing?

Crying to fulfill

Fulfill the feeling

April 28, 2011

Bridge

Take me away,

Take me away.

To the place in your mind,

when you wrote this lyric.

To the person who inspired

you to let yourself go.

Introduce me to that moment.

Let me be its acquaintance.

Take me to that playground,

Where your imagination spun,

Round and round, up and down

jumping off the swing set,

climbing and sliding.

Creative bliss

Take me away,

Take me there.

Don’t open your eyes.

Stay in the chorus.

Don’t close your mind,

Channeling inspiration.

Close your wings,

Let yourself fall.

May 5, 2011