L'Américaine au Cameroun

It's been a while since I've posted anything, but I wanted to let everyone know some news:

As you all know, I'm coming up on the end of my two years in Cameroon. It's been a great experience thus far: The microfinance bank I work with has improved drastically, the school I work with has expanded and hired new staff, I've given classes and seminars to farmers in dirt floor buildings ten kilometers off the nearest paved road and to bank managers and their Peace Corps counterparts in beach resort hotel conference rooms. I've ridden in bush taxis and spent hours waiting on the side of the road, learned how to eat my cous-cous and sauce d'arachide with my hands and finally improved my French enough to understand Tony Parker's hip-hop attempts.

The news is: It's not over yet. I will be staying in Cameroon for a third year. Through a partnership with Peace Corps Cameroon and the United Nations Development Program Cameroon, I'll be staying in Cameroon as a regional office manager for the UNDP's Grassroots Poverty Reduction Program. I'll be in Bafoussam, just about an hour from Bangou, responsible for the West and North-West Provinces. The regional offices accept funding proposals to the Grassroots Poverty Reduction Program and conduct initial evaluations before sending proposals on to the main office in Yaoundé. They also monitor outstanding projects which have received UNDP funding. I'll be spending a lot of the time based in the Bafoussam office but will also get to spend about 20% of my time in the field, visiting projects.

I've just come back from a month's home leave in the States and am starting training with the UNDP tomorrow. From there I'll go up to Bafoussam to look for an apartment and be busy getting settled in there. By the end of this month I should be in the swing of things, as they say.

I'm also hoping to keep more regular posts up here, mainly thanks to the generosity of a good friend and the new (to me) laptop computer she gave to me.

So to sign off for now, I'm wishing you all well and hoping for some good luck on my move to Bafoussam.

Bizous,

Jessie

Some kids get to go to school here in Cameroon, but many do not. They don't go to school because their parents can't afford it, because they haven't passed the exams or because there's only enough money for a few children in the family and this is not their year.

I designed and ran a class for kids who are no longer in school in April and May. It ran for two months and we met twice a week in the Binum building, home to the the agricultural group I work with. My students were between 13 and 18 years old. Most could read a small amount but I had one boy couldn't write his own name and one girl could read most anything I could write. I recruited these kids by walking through the markets, talking to market mommies, heading out au cartier and chatting people up and going to group meetings with the cashier from my bank.

The class was a mix of toned-down business classes, sessions on HIV/AIDS and sessions from what's called the "Life Skills Manuel" -- making good decisions and thinking about one's future. They idea behind this class was pretty straightforward: All kids work here, and kids no longer in school especially so. They gather wood, they sell peanuts or beans in the market. The lucky ones find odd jobs with a mechanic or tailor. The class was aimed at teenagers, those right on the cusp of adulthood and families of their own. These kids aren't going to grow up and have steady jobs or any sort of benefits. They are going to need to support themselves making things, growing things, and selling them. The idea of the class was to get them thinking about their future and started on making it happen.

Our first class, I separated the boys and the girls into two groups and asked each group to make me two lists: First, a list of ten things they could do to earn money when they are grown, ranked in order by preference. Second, a list of five goals they have for their lives, not including work, ranked by importance.I had done this exercise myself that morning and had easily come up with my list of female and male income-generating activities that folks do in Bangou: Tailor, boutique owner, bar owner, pot mommie, farmer, raising animals, selling vegetables in the market, buying fabric in the city and selling it in the village, grilling food, grinding corn and flour, photographer, chauffeur, mototaxi driver, restaurateur. It took the kids 45 minutes to come up with their lists and required a lot of assistance on my part. They had never considered this before. No one had ever asked them "What do you want to be when you grow up?" They were all pretty adamant that they didn't want to be farmers -- too much work for very little money -- but they had no idea what they wanted for themselves instead.

During the business sessions we used examples they were familiar with: Mototaxi men, tailors and vendors. We relied on a lot of skits and games, as most of the kids couldn't read that well. We talked about how we could know if an idea could generate a profit, where to find the resources a person might need, how to do a budget and plan for those rainy days: Malaria, broken machines and family asking for money. We did a role play in which one fabric seller puts a small amount away each market day, saving to increase his stock while another takes all the surplus home. We watched the first increase his sales over time while the others stayed at the same level, laughing at the ferocious market bargaining of the actors and counting up their piles of play money at the end.

We spent a week talking about HIV/AIDS. We played a game about myths and facts, matching up true stories and false ones, discussing what we thought of each. With a male Peace Corps volunteer, we split off into boys and girls and practiced putting condoms on bananas. The girls side spent a lot of time talking about how to negotiate condom use: How do you get your boyfriend to wear one? How can you get them when everyone in town knows who you are? What if your boyfriend doesn't believe AIDS exists?

One day about six weeks into the class we took a small field trip to my bank. The kids had never been to a bank before and weren't familiar with what goes on there. The accountant explained how one opens an account and makes deposits and withdrawals. I gave them 600 CFA to deposit into my account. They clustered around the counter, elected Edith the form-filler-outer and walked the money over to the window. After our tour of the front office we went into the back to see my counterpart, the bank manager.

He welcomed them into the office and, after a little talk about the bank, started asking them questions about the class. They nervously looked down at the ground. Here was a college educated, notable, grey-haired man with one of the most important jobs in Bangou and he was speaking to them! A group of uneducated farmers' kids who walked in 40 minutes from the bush to get to the bank. But the manager persisted in asking them questions and they slowly warmed up. Yes, they liked the class. Yes, they were learning a lot. Yes, Mlle. Jessie is very nice.

Then he asked them what they wanted to do when they were grown. Edith looked up from the floor, looked directly into the bank manger's eyes and said "I want to make clothes." Eric came next, saying he will open a small boutique. Thierry looked up from his shoes and said he wants to be a mason and help build buildings. We all turned to look at Boris. He looked back at us, moving his eyes from face to face. Turns out Boris still needs some time to reflect.

1. You address women as “ma” and men as “mon père.”
2. You can shell peanuts one-handed.
3. When someone says good morning to you, you reply: “Thank you.”
4. Bamiléké women are impressed with your negotiating skills.
5. You know the best way to compliment a mother is to say her baby is the fattest you’ve seen and that he must eat bien.
6. You eat your couscous with your hands.
7. You understand that when people call you fat and say that you must eat bien it’s also a compliment.
8. You develop a taste for fresh beer and even sometimes prefer it to cold beer.
9. You think sharing the front seat of the taxi with someone is a lot more comfortable when you’ve got a petit chauffeur to lean against.
10. You understand that teeth sucking signifies slight displeasure, a hiss means come here, a lip-point indicates “That one,” “Won-der-ful” means unbelievable and a lip-point with a kiss sound means “Oh, petit! Quit your fooling around and bring me that!”

I live in Bangou Carrefour, across the street from the intersection that gives the neighborhood its’ name. Just a few steps up the path leading from my concession door is the garre, with taxis going to Banganté, Bafoussam, Bafang and even – if one is willing to wait half a day for the car to fill – Douala and Yaoundé. Lining the garre and the main street are bars, two omelet shacks, boutiques that sell powered milk, prepaid phone cards and other assorted necessities, pot mommies selling rice and sauce and meat. Women set up shop on the side of the garre, selling avocados, herbs and this weird chalky rock that can be ground up and used to thicken sauces. On market days and weekends women and children walk around selling all kinds of things from baskets and trays balanced on top of their heads. An old traditional dancer walks around, beaded leg coverings rattling, selling dances for a beer or a few hundred francs. Motorcycle taxi drivers wait in a line along the side of the main road and for a few hundred francs they’ll take you places regular taxis don’t go: The chefferie, Batchingou, Balembo.

All this action makes a lot of noise. Chauffeurs shout out their destinations: “Banganté, Bamena pressé la!” Music, especially after dark, blasts out of the bars. Côte d’Ivorian ‘couper-décaler’ dance music, Cameroonian bakutsi or makossa, popular African pop songs, Celine Dion, American hip-hop. Outside my door, the Muslims who run the omelet shack splash water while washing before their constant praying and men urinate against the building across the way. The women selling on the sides of the garre call out to people walking by: “Ton-ton, il y a les bons avocats ici!” People selling off the tops of their heads just call out their merchandise to nobody in particular in nasally voices: “Arachide, arachide.” Those rattling leg coverings. Car horns beeping and prerecorded voices on moto taxis repeating the fare: “Cent francs, cent francs.” If there is a soccer match going on, it’s possible to count the Lions’ score by the cheers that go up through the carrefour.

Personal space means nothing here. Life is lived up against others. Friends, male and female, young and old, walk together holding hands.* Likewise the idea that one person’s noise could disturb another person is completely foreign. I’ve never heard of someone making a noise complaint to the police, but I am sure that the gendarmes would laugh if someone tried. The gendarmes might even be at the party or bar keeping the neighbors up at night. Or, I should say, making all the racket, because there’s no amount of noise a Cameroonian can’t sleep through.

Cameroon conducted a census a few months back. Census workers went door to door, trying to collect information on everyone in the country. On the day the census worker showed up at my door, I was cleaning my house, hair tied up in a fular, Modest Mouse blasting from my stereo. Once she got over the initial shock of a white woman answering the door, the census woman came inside and got right down to business. Was I married or single? Did I rent my apartment or own it? Is there running water and if not how far do I have to walk to get water? What was my education level? Profession? Age? Nationality? Religion? She didn’t ask me to turn down the stereo and I didn’t offer. We leaned our heads close to each other to hear as she posed her questions and I answered them. After she finished, she asked for a glass of water and went on to the next house and my music kept right on blaring.

My contribution to the neighborhood noise is usually my stereo. I listen to music while I clean my house, cook, work and sit on my porch contemplating the progress of my peas and zucchini. Marcel likes dancing to the new live Wilco album (thanks Allie!) and when Taco (I swear that’s his name) comes over to play Uno he always asks to put a c.d. on. He really likes Tori Amos, and ‘whoo-whos’ along with her when she sings, “Whoo-who, the time is getting closer. Whoo-who, time to be a ghost.”

I recently bought a short-wave radio, hoping to be able to catch the English-language BBC news. I bought the radio in Bafang and while I was waiting for my taxi to fill I bought some batteries and started listening to it in the backseat of the car. Again, after getting over the initial shock of sharing the taxi with a white woman, the other passengers didn’t seem to notice the noise of the radio.

My radio doesn’t get reception in my house, so I have to rest it on the railing of my porch or hang it off the metal supports for my pea plants. If I’m not on the porch, I just turn up the volume loud so I can hear the news in my house. When the weather (or whatever affects reception) is good I can get the BBC World Update, which repeats the same six international news stories over and over. Sometimes I get the Voice of America. I heard an editorial promising easy immigration to the U.S. for any foreigner who helps return a POA/MIA American. Once I heard an English-language call-in on RFI, the French version of the BBC. For what it’s worth, my radio also gets Japanese, German, Cameroonian, French, Arabic (or possibly Northern Cameroonian) and music stations. When the weather (or whatever) is not good, the BBC fades in and out, mingling with these other stations.

So now the noises of Bangou include not just chauffeurs, bar music, prayer noises, people in the walkway, sellers selling things, rattling leg coverings, car horns and Lions’ scores but also British accents, fleeting Japanese and German, Muslim chanting and French rap laid over De la Soul tracks. Nobody’s noticed the radio.

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* The Cameroonian hand-hold requires its’ very own explanation: Hand holding is an expression of friendship here, not a romantic activity. So two male friends may hold hands and two female friends may hold hands. Occasionally a male and female friend may hold hands. Couples do not hold hands. The man-on-man hold goes like this: Two friends, who maybe haven’t seen each other in a day or two will hold hands, palms crossing each other. This is also the quick handhold to be done between two male friends while crossing the street. The man-on-man close friend or brother handhold requires interlocking fingers. Every so often, the woman-on-woman handhold is like the first man-on-man hold, but more often it has one woman grasping the index finger of the second women. Both women have a slight swing to their hands and arms as they walk. Sometimes, male and female friends will hold hands while talking, but this is usually just a handshake with a delayed release. Couples rarely, and in the village never, hold hands.

I have been waiting for rain. One of my most favorite things about life here is just how unbelievably beautiful it is: Rolling green hills with pineapple bushes and palm trees. Tomatoes and peanuts and corn and beans growing everywhere. Mount Batcha in the distance with clouds and mist drifting across the top. All of these things disappear during the dry season.

I know some of you are braving snow and heavy rain out there, but over here in Bangou we've been sweating through the dry season since the fall. It's horribly dusty: Dust covers the trees and the dead stalks of corn, dust filters in through the air vents of the cars as they barrel down dusty dirt roads, dust collects on dishes drying in the dish drainer. Dust is thick like bad L.A. smog and makes it so you hardly know Mount Batch is off in the distance.

I've been asking people when the rainy season will start up again and everyone says -- with unshakable confidence -- March 15. Each and every person answers the exact same way. With absolute precision, they say: "March 15th. The rain will come March 15th."

Time is elastic here. Nothing starts 'on time' because 'on time' is a totally foreign concept. I've started saying that things are on an "American hour" when I invite people over or have meetings. Even Bangou's language is flexible on the issue of time.

In a patois lesson, I asked my teacher to explain the difference between past, present and future tenses. This really had honestly not come up. "Well," she said, writing in my notebook, "here is how you would say you prepared food yesterday, here is how you would say you are preparing food now and here is how you would say you will prepare food tomorrow." The past and future sentences were almost exactly the same.

See, Bangou has tenses that roughly correspond to past and future tenses, but a more accurate translation would be that there are sentence structures that differentiate between now and not now. The word usually given as tomorrow is better translated as the not now after today and yesterday as the not now before today.

So I hope you can understand why I found the absolute precision of a March 15th start to the rainy season amusing. I had some serious doubts. I was pretty sure it would start sometime in March, or at least not before February or after April.

March 14th came just as dry, dusty and hot as all the days before. March 15th started off that way, too. But by early afternoon the wind was blowing and the sky looked like it was close to sunset. Soon big, fat raindrops began falling out of the sky. Then thunder claps followed by hailstones bigger than peas but smaller than gobstoppers. The hail and rain continued, and I filled up my buckets of water off the stream pouring down the roof. March 15th, I shouldn't be surprised by hailstones. The rainy season's here.