Yaoundé

The city for you is but the sight from your hotel room. Hours of talking vaguely about what you will do while not doing anything drives you a little crazy. You take a deep breath for the two years to come and anticipate when you get to your training site and host family. 

Hope they like the knife you got them.

People call you “le blanc”, why not. When you do get to walk around you try to memorize everything in the four foot wide gutter. They’ve banned plastic bags here. The are no markings on the streets. You see a white guy holding the hand of one small blond boy who makes a train with an even smaller small blond boy, a dog on a leash orbits them. A lizard runs away with a butterfly. Bravo little guy.

You talked to the security guard and he told you of a good surf spot in the South, something like Karebi. 

Sometimes there is water, but if not you go to the hallway for the community bucket, fill your own bucket, dump in toilet or self, repeat. 

Last night the sky bursted and your fellow volunteers danced in it as you looked on. The sounds, the laughter, the water all like home when you were small and would dance in the rain.

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