Journey to Mokolo: Part I

All of the Health trainees were shifting in their seats with the anticipation of finding out where they would live for the next two years, trading glances between each other and the giant map of Cameroon looming at the front of the classroom. My trainer, Sylvie called my name and handed me a neon green post-it note that had been sealed shut with its own adhesive.

When she was finally done, in a deep voice accented with African French, she said, "Okay. Open." All at once, we ripped the papers wide and suddenly there was chaos around me. Everyone jumped up and ran to the map and their voices quickly comprised a chorus of names of towns and regions and "me too" or "not me." Amidst the storm of words and movement, I sat very still and stared at the blue ink on my slip of paper, completely unable to comprehend what was written. "Where are you?" a friend finally asked. And before I could mumble that I thought I was in the North East (Mokolo, E.N. was written on the paper) she had looked over my shoulder and answered her own question. "Oh. You're in the Extreme North." And that's when I realized. Oh shit. I'm in the extreme north.

I'm not sure whether it was my dyslexia at work, or whether it was so unfathomable to me that it did not register until I heard it aloud. It had never crossed my mind that I could possibly go to the extreme north. Even its name was ominous. From what I'd heard, "Extreme North" meant extreme heat of up to 130 degrees, desert-like conditions, food and water scarcity, sandstorms and sunburn, and on top of that "extremely" conservative because of the predominance of Muslims in that region. I was too shocked to be upset, only uneasy. But I also knew that I had no idea what it would be like, and I would withhold my judgment until I learned more.

Two weeks later I boarded an overnight train in Yaounde, the capital, for my visit to Mokolo. It was to be a two day journey, with a group of 15 Health and agro-forestry volunteers arriving in Ngoundere the following morning, and then taking an additional 8-10 hour busride to the regional capital of the Extreme North, Maroua.

For the most part I had still managed to withhold judgment about my site, but my unease had since been replaced with excitement and contentment with the match after having learned more about the region. Mokolo was described in a U.K. tour book as "a charming town" and an access point into one of the most touristic natural wonders of "volcanic plugs and basalt outcrops." (I don't know what that means either, but I'm still looking forward to seeing it.) It also is not far from Waza national park, which is the most visited park in Cameroon because of its array of wildlife, including lions, cheetahs, giraffes, and hundreds of elephants that gather at its watering hole. Additionally, I also learned that there was a deep wealth of traditional cultures that had been maintained in the region. And although, yes, it would be hot and dry, Mokolo was at least within the mountains. And Sylvia had reassured me that no Peace Corp volunteer had ever starved to death.