Home in Africa

Our families had been waiting for two hours when we arrived in Bafia, a small city about two hours northwest of the capital, Yaounde. Earlier that day we had went to the Police Department to get our resident cards, --an intimidating experience given the corruption here -- and had been thrown off schedule. The familie's dark faces and bright clothes constrasted with the gigantic gray building, with spacious rooms that opened to the patio and grass where they sat waiting, as if they were posing for a photograph. The volunteers piled out of the buses, a huge white swarm of backpacks and nervous faces. We stood and waited for the names of our host families to be called.  I had a slip of paper with my father's name, Moungan, who was a baker, and the names of his three wives.  There were 11 people total living in my new home. I wondered who would show up to get me.
When each volunteer's name was called, applause would follow, with a few exceptions of awkward mishaps that caused both the groups of Cameroonians and Americans to laugh.  When my name was called, I walked forward and met my father. He was a slender man with many creases in his nearly black face, and his eyes were kind but serious.  He assisted me in grabbing my bags and together we piled into the passenger seat of the bus that would take us to the nearby semi-rural town of Lable. After a few minutes, the bus was packed full of volunteers, luggage and our host families. As we began to pull away from the training site, the matriarch of the African women, began to clap and sing and soon the others quickly followed.  I too found myself clapping and near tears as their voices began to belt out smooth African hymns. The bus swayed back and forth with the bumps in the dirt road and the rythym of their songs. Their music wrapped me in its arms and I felt the comfort that only a mother can provide - in this case, our Motherland.