July 10, 2006
We’re in.
The move is done. We got all of our clothes, computers, books, dishes we liberated from our old apartment, the remaining food and a mattress over to the new place in two trips. Since I’ve beaten “The Grapes of Wrath” to death, we were the Clampets. Now here’s a little story about a man named Ev…
Our apartment is a lovely space, white walls, high ceilings. Check that, they appear to be high ceilings. But Bec and I are munchkins in comparison with the rest of the population, so anything I don’t bump my head on is a high ceiling to me. There’s a spare room for an office for me, plus another that is a combination utility/storage/guest room once we get a bed for it. We’re not taking the one from our old place. It squeaks so much that if one of us rolled over in the middle of the night the other woke up from the noise.
The kitchen needs some work. There’s precious little storage space, just a few cabinets under the counter. So we’ll get ourselves some cupboards and storage units. When are they going to open up the Yaounde branch of Hold Everything? Also, the sink, for some reason, does not allow hot water. You’ve got to turn the handle and lift it to get water pressure, and turning the handle in the direction of hot turns the water off. We’ll figure that one out.
On the plus side, we appear to be winning the War on Bugs. The apartment was empty for a few weeks, and so the roaches and ants had the run of the place. We found this out our first night in the place when, after a night at a jazz club, I went to pour myself water. It was like the passage to the Temple of Doom, when the bugs are crawling over everything. Normally I’m not all that bothered by bugs, but it was way too much for me. Ants got into our breakfast for the next day (yummy raisin rolls that weren’t to be) and roaches were scaling the wine glasses. I was half expecting to see Kafka’s giant roach sitting at the dining table.
So we’ve set out the traps, cleaned every surface and are diligent in the continuation of that cleanliness. There are still bugs. Much like the wars on terrorism and drugs, the War on Bugs in a tropical climate cannot be won. But you can establish a manageable level of bugs.
There are a few other slight problems in the place, but I stress slight. One is that because the floors are white they’re hard to keep clean. We’ll do our best. A second is that for some reason, the French didn’t bring shower curtains to Africa. So we don’t have one in our apartment (and we didn’t in Kigali either. Damn Belgians.) That lack of a shower curtain, which Rebecca, Yaounde’s answer to Bob Villa, vows to fix, adds to the problem of the white floors. Plus, the showerhead doesn’t have a hook high enough to stand under the water. Why did the French like that arrangement? But the new bathroom is definitely better than the brown walls, floors and fixtures, compounded by bad lighting, in our old place. I guess the brown was meant to be evocative and help aid the process. I’m not sure that worked, but it definitely made the room dark.
The final problem is that our hot water heater broke. That can be fixed fairly easily, but Paul the super hasn’t showed up yet.
One of Bec’s co-workers, an Italian named Matteo, lives in the building. I’m not sure if he’s awake yet following his country’s victory last night. We didn’t watch the game because, well, France-Italy wasn’t that interesting to us. And I just can’t stomach penalty kicks deciding the World Cup champ. That is the lamest thing in the world, and the best argument against soccer. They should do it like hockey – keep playing until someone scores. I don’t care if you’re there all night and into the next day.
Anyway, after we heard Italy won, we heard screaming outside. Happy screaming, don’t worry. And then we heard the Doppler-effected horn of what we suspect was Matteo’s CRS-issued vehicle, going up and down our street.
Anyway, when I went out earlier this morning, Odelia, who cleans our place and Matteo’s, was sitting outside. Monday is Matteo day, and she said she didn’t want to disturb him. Then she showed me where he parked, outside on the street. It looks like the rear driver-side tire is in the drainage ditch that runs along the roads here. I’m not sure if it’s all the way in, but the truck is on a funny angle, and the other tires appear to be straining. Forza Italia!
I walked by the Italian Embassy, which is around the corner from our apartment. There was a long line of Cameroonians waiting to get in. There were lines at the Spanish and Swiss embassies, also neighbors, but they had decreased by the time I came back an hour later. That wasn’t the case with the Italians.
In case you’re wondering which former colonial power Cameroon was pulling for, Odelia says it was Italy. I can’t say that I blame them. First off, I think most of humanity outside of France, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Libya (read your history books about Fascist Italy to understand what I mean) and Zinadine Zedane’s hometown was rooting for Italy. Second, French rule in southern Cameroon wasn’t all strawberries and cream. Or even bananas and palm wine. It was nasty, brutal and entirely too long. The government the French left behind isn’t much better, but does have support from the Hexagon. I can understand why Cameroonians, if Odelia is right, were rooting for Italy.
We’re in.
The move is done. We got all of our clothes, computers, books, dishes we liberated from our old apartment, the remaining food and a mattress over to the new place in two trips. Since I’ve beaten “The Grapes of Wrath” to death, we were the Clampets. Now here’s a little story about a man named Ev…
Our apartment is a lovely space, white walls, high ceilings. Check that, they appear to be high ceilings. But Bec and I are munchkins in comparison with the rest of the population, so anything I don’t bump my head on is a high ceiling to me. There’s a spare room for an office for me, plus another that is a combination utility/storage/guest room once we get a bed for it. We’re not taking the one from our old place. It squeaks so much that if one of us rolled over in the middle of the night the other woke up from the noise.
The kitchen needs some work. There’s precious little storage space, just a few cabinets under the counter. So we’ll get ourselves some cupboards and storage units. When are they going to open up the Yaounde branch of Hold Everything? Also, the sink, for some reason, does not allow hot water. You’ve got to turn the handle and lift it to get water pressure, and turning the handle in the direction of hot turns the water off. We’ll figure that one out.
On the plus side, we appear to be winning the War on Bugs. The apartment was empty for a few weeks, and so the roaches and ants had the run of the place. We found this out our first night in the place when, after a night at a jazz club, I went to pour myself water. It was like the passage to the Temple of Doom, when the bugs are crawling over everything. Normally I’m not all that bothered by bugs, but it was way too much for me. Ants got into our breakfast for the next day (yummy raisin rolls that weren’t to be) and roaches were scaling the wine glasses. I was half expecting to see Kafka’s giant roach sitting at the dining table.
So we’ve set out the traps, cleaned every surface and are diligent in the continuation of that cleanliness. There are still bugs. Much like the wars on terrorism and drugs, the War on Bugs in a tropical climate cannot be won. But you can establish a manageable level of bugs.
There are a few other slight problems in the place, but I stress slight. One is that because the floors are white they’re hard to keep clean. We’ll do our best. A second is that for some reason, the French didn’t bring shower curtains to Africa. So we don’t have one in our apartment (and we didn’t in Kigali either. Damn Belgians.) That lack of a shower curtain, which Rebecca, Yaounde’s answer to Bob Villa, vows to fix, adds to the problem of the white floors. Plus, the showerhead doesn’t have a hook high enough to stand under the water. Why did the French like that arrangement? But the new bathroom is definitely better than the brown walls, floors and fixtures, compounded by bad lighting, in our old place. I guess the brown was meant to be evocative and help aid the process. I’m not sure that worked, but it definitely made the room dark.
The final problem is that our hot water heater broke. That can be fixed fairly easily, but Paul the super hasn’t showed up yet.
One of Bec’s co-workers, an Italian named Matteo, lives in the building. I’m not sure if he’s awake yet following his country’s victory last night. We didn’t watch the game because, well, France-Italy wasn’t that interesting to us. And I just can’t stomach penalty kicks deciding the World Cup champ. That is the lamest thing in the world, and the best argument against soccer. They should do it like hockey – keep playing until someone scores. I don’t care if you’re there all night and into the next day.
Anyway, after we heard Italy won, we heard screaming outside. Happy screaming, don’t worry. And then we heard the Doppler-effected horn of what we suspect was Matteo’s CRS-issued vehicle, going up and down our street.
Anyway, when I went out earlier this morning, Odelia, who cleans our place and Matteo’s, was sitting outside. Monday is Matteo day, and she said she didn’t want to disturb him. Then she showed me where he parked, outside on the street. It looks like the rear driver-side tire is in the drainage ditch that runs along the roads here. I’m not sure if it’s all the way in, but the truck is on a funny angle, and the other tires appear to be straining. Forza Italia!
I walked by the Italian Embassy, which is around the corner from our apartment. There was a long line of Cameroonians waiting to get in. There were lines at the Spanish and Swiss embassies, also neighbors, but they had decreased by the time I came back an hour later. That wasn’t the case with the Italians.
In case you’re wondering which former colonial power Cameroon was pulling for, Odelia says it was Italy. I can’t say that I blame them. First off, I think most of humanity outside of France, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Libya (read your history books about Fascist Italy to understand what I mean) and Zinadine Zedane’s hometown was rooting for Italy. Second, French rule in southern Cameroon wasn’t all strawberries and cream. Or even bananas and palm wine. It was nasty, brutal and entirely too long. The government the French left behind isn’t much better, but does have support from the Hexagon. I can understand why Cameroonians, if Odelia is right, were rooting for Italy.
posted by Evan Weinberger at 8:27 AM
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