buea

The prevailing odor is a hybrid: diesel exhaust, cook fire smoke, massive mildew, mothballs, body odor and  unidentifiable spices, all in fluctuating proportion. Catbird understands why, though.  Rattly old cars, thermal inversion, poverty, rainy season, and cold water hauled from a community spigot in a big plastic antifreeze container in the foothills of Mount Cameroon.

The ultra-quick-dry-fabric pants and blouse Catbird rinsed on Tuesday night are still not dry on Thursday night.   And the cold shower that first night (though we've had plenty of hot since) increase her compassion for hygiene challenges.

Actually, once she got past her middle-American conditioning for deodorant and scented shampoos, Catbird realized that much body odor is just that: natural odor of the body.  Consider the sweet, salty smell of a clean horse barn.  Catbird loves this smell from her youth and most of what she's getting more like that. Sure a few street people bring tears to the eyes, but that just reminds her of the drag in Austin.

Human odor is not so much offensive as it is foreign to Catbird's experience.   Catbird herself is not likely to go native any time soon--at least not as long as her clothes and the hot water at the Residence Hotel hold out. But she is developing a tolerance.

 Catbird may smell okay but she is the most under-dressed woman on campus.  Even the women cleaning out the drain culverts by the side of the road with their little bundles of sticks are wearing bright colors, big earrings; most are wearing skirts and blouses.  Catbird brought some nice things to wear, but this relentless rain, rain, rain and subsequent mud (it does remind one of Indiana spring--without the peonies and fried green tomatoes) have kept her in baggy quick-dry fabric travel slacks and waterproof hiking shoes.  Can you say frumpy?  Catbird can say comfortable.

When school starts on Sunday, though, Catbird will put on big earrings, her new black skirt, a bright blouse and sandals.  And will pray her feet don't go out from under her.  On campus, even the best walkways are mossy and slick, and today all are generously puddled.

The University of Buea campus has sweeping grounds between buildings so there is plenty of walking to do.  The campus sets back from the road and has lovely flora and fauna which make this place an oasis.  The rest of Buea is one long road up the mountain with shops and shacks and stalls leaning shoulder to shoulder and pushed right up against the edge of the pavement.  Trash and construction debris and chickens and children and food grilled on oil drums and pedestrians crossing and hailing rides make it colorful and chaotic.   And a little intimidating.

Catbird really had no idea she was such a Victorian prude about civilization until landing in Cameroon.  There are no words for the smack in the face of chaos that is the Douala airport.   Catbird can only say she came away with a very powerful understanding of how much she values the order of her own culture, no matter how schizophrenic it may be.  The beauty of signs explaining purpose!  Public facilities designed with at least some understanding of egress, entrance and traffic patterns!  Oh, and a nod to the layout that serves the function of the space.  Even (and it pains Catbird to admit this) the wonder and glory of security personnel who help keep things in order.  The accepted, though occasionally bucked, tradition of waiting in line...ah.  It's the little things that bring it home.  

Tonight 18 dewy-eyed fellow facilitators for the school arrive at Douala Airport.  Catbird is waiting up for them though they won't arrive until midnight.  They might be whiffy from their travels, but Catbird won't mind.  We'll be like war buddies.

 

Anticipation

Between one trip and another, the gratitude for home is laced with wakefulness at 3 a.m.  Sometimes this is due to jetlag.  Sometimes anxiety.  Often both.

My physicist finds travel exhilarating and usually refreshing.  Catbird on the other hand, finds it stressful and tiring.  Especially in the planning stages.  What will the universe throw our way?  How do we prepare for it?  Do we have everything we need? These questions challenge Catbird's ongoing efforts to BE HERE NOW.  

Daily meditation/centering prayer are peppered with little reminders of things Catbird means to do, needs to do, must not forget to do, in anticipation of the next trip.  Catbird has grudgingly accepted a to-do list next to her bed so that when these travel-worthy ideas assault the quiet of centering breath--and refuse to go away--she writes them down.  Duly acknowledged, they tend to quiet down.   Then she begins the breath count again.   (This is a page out of her parenting experience: Catbird learned early that those little voices will shrill down once they know they've been heard.) 

Last week, Catbird dreamed she had hurt her father's feelings by selecting the wrong sized cane.   Since Dad has been dead for almost three years, Catbird spent some time trying to decode this message from her deep psyche.  Finally she just chalked it up to free-floating anxiety.

Despite the amount of preparation required for the next trip, and the amount of anxiety attached to it, we've been maintaining a pretty rigorous schedule of physical activity.   Sweat and an accelerated heart rate are the tools Catbird  has since giving up mood altering substances back in '87. 

There doesn't seem to be enough physical activity to create a haven of rest against the worries about the next trip, though.  In Buea, Cameroon, my physicist and his chums will deliver the 3rd Hands-On Research School in Complex Systems.  http://handsonresearch.org/index.html  Since this is not our first Hand-On School, and this is not our first trip to Cameroon, one might think we'd know what to expect and that is somewhat true.  It is also true, however, that what we expect is that this one will be hard.  Catbird doesn't want to even think about those details now, so they will be fodder for another blog.  

Meanwhile, it is time to sit comfortably, close her eyes, breathe in to the count of 8...out to the count of 16...in to the count of 10...out to the count of 20...Yikes, where are the vaccination cards?

Re-Entry

Catbird had the not-at-all unusual experience one morning this week of waking to ask myself: where am I today?  What pleasure to find I was home, Auntie 'Em, home, home, home. 

vacation

View across the lake

Our last day in Varenna, my physicist was supposed to facilitate the morning lectures, but when Catbird whined about it at dinner the night before, FPs stepped up as substitutes.  Yeaay for the generosity of FPs!

That meant Catbird and physicist could ride the ferry to Bellagio for an outing together and a bit of lunch before schlepping our bags to the train station one last time.  

In Varenna, those of us not in attendance at the Fermi School mainly walked and ate (and ate and ate) and admired the gardens.  In Terezza across the water we wandered through the beautiful Villa Carlotta with its rich gardens.  In Bellagio,  "the pearl of Lago di Como," we shopped; climbing up and down steep and ancient walkways lent an element of adventure sorely lacking in Highland Mall so that even my physicist (a decided non-shopper) enjoyed himself. It goes without saying that in every town we visited in Italy, including those on the lake, Catbird enjoyed the gelato stands, which are thicker than Starbuck's in Austin by a factor of 4. 

 

Deadheading the beds

The quality of life on Lago di Como was different from the other towns we visited in Italy.  While we did not run into George Clooney, we can understand why he has a villa there.  The people were genuinely nice.  Even the tourists were nicer.  We have a few hypotheses:

1) There are no tour groups with their matching hats, megaphones and sperm-like burrowing at the egg of a single monument.  
2)  There isn't much to do, and if you want to go across the lake to not do much at another town, no need to worry about the schedule.  There is always another ferry in about 20 minutes; go eat a gelato while you wait.  
3)  No tipping.  The whole psychology of genuine hospitality vs. obsequious posturing for the almighty dollar--and the resentments inevitably engendered--could fill a dissertation or two.  
4)  Mountains at one's back, a quiet lake to the front, give a sense of place in the world.  For hundreds of years, people have walked the same steep ramp to the lake.  Though there are ongoing projects to improve and maintain life on the lake, the overwhelming sense is one of permanence.  And the train comes through just often enough, and the internet connection is sufficient, so that one doesn't feel completely isolated.  
5)  On the other hand, maybe its in the water.

 

Last afternoon in Varenna, Catbird and her Kindle (out of frame)

You'd Tell Me, Wouldn't You?

We arrived here at Varenna on Sunday, though the Fermi Institute where my physicist is working did not begin its sessions until Tuesday.  That gave Catbird some time to prowl around while my physicist prepared his lectures.  

 

Sunken tub in Villa Minestero

The Villa Minestero, where we are housed and where the lectures take place, is part of a larger estate.  Tourists pay admission to wander through, though they are restricted to the gardens and gift shop and--on Sundays only--the main house with its antiques and restored rooms.  We especially enjoyed the Murano glass chandeliers, embossed leather wallpaper and the beautiful sunken bathtub with painted nudies.  Although the estate was originally a monastery, obviously a few owners along the way--before it was donated to the Italian science organization--used it for more than mere contemplation.

 

Leather wallpaper in the bathroom of Villa Minestero

Catbird must also add that although the room we are in is comfortable, it hearkens more to the monasterial times: bare plaster walls, no scroll-work or artwork of any kind, strictly functional shower.  And, has been the case in most of our hotels, only a token accommodation to guests desire for a king/queen or even just a double bed.  Twin beds are pushed together and--if one is lucky--the bottom sheet fitted over both mattresses.  In Agay, our twin beds each had their own set of bedclothes and though they were arranged to sit against one another, the beds were light and drifted apart without much provocation.  Good or bad, Catbird has learned to sleep through the night on the crack. 

Early in our stay, as Catbird and my physicist walked along the garden here, we saw a woman up ahead step out of a doorway and rejoin her male partner on the gravel walk.  She was an average tourist--short hair, sensible shoes, middle aged--except that the back of her very full and colorful skirt was tucked into her underpants.  

If Catbird had been closer, she'd have tapped the woman on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, but the distance was too great.  To try to catch up to her would draw more attention.  To call out would have been worse. One could only watch in horror. 

Catbird elbowed her physicist and surreptitiously pointed out the wardrobe failure, then we both had to duck behind the next hedge and laugh ourselves silly.  

When we were slightly more composed, we reemerged only have to remove ourselves once again when we saw the woman and her partner walking arm in arm with her skirt still rucked up in the back.

"Oh, surely her husband will notice and tell her soon," said Catbird.  It was a plea, a prayer.

In a disclosure of acute self-awareness that forced us to abandon our walk and return to our room to laugh until the tears poured, my physicist replied, "Not if he is a physicist." 

The couple was last seen casually strolling the garden path much as we all do: oblivious to the spinach in our teeth, the napkin tucked into our belt, the sweater buttoned crookedly, the shirt on inside out, the hem ruched into our underpants.  Catbird just hopes when these things happen to her, someone she loves will tell her so she can fix it.  And laugh, too.

 

My physicist on the garden walk