L'Américaine au Cameroun

I was rereading Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible the other day and came across this fabulous generalization of the Congolese: There are two kinds of people, those who are tied to their mothers' backs and those who can walk on their own two feet. The same holds for Cameroun. Folks aren't in the business of raising children here, enfants. They are raising small adults, petites. Kids here are amazingly self-sufficient.

We had a barbecue at my house recently and I told some of my neighborhood boys -- we'll call them Ya Ya and crew -- to come over in the morning to help with preparation. Here's how I met Ya Ya:

It was about a week into my time in Bangou and people hadn't really figured out how to handle me yet. Children liked to follow me around in packs, saying "Give me a present, give me some money." My usual way to handle this was to joke back with them. "Where's my present? Why don't you give me some money?" So after one of these cute little exchanges, I was at home and my doorbell rang. There was Ya Ya, the leader of the pack of déranging kids, holding a bag of guavas. "Tata, here's your present."

So Ya Ya and crew have since become a regular feature of Bangou life. They hang out, playing Uno and eating whatever I've cooked no matter how strange it is to their taste buds. Ya Ya continues to bring me presents, mostly sugar cane and whatever fuit is in season. He comes over and wears my motorcycle helmet while sitting out on my porch.

For the barbecue, I told the boys to come over in the morning to help with preparations. They cleaned green beans, peeled potatoes, went to the market for sugar and flour. And then it was time to kill the chickens.

Another volunteer got the chicken killing started with chicken number one. That one down, he sent the boys to catch the other two chickens. If you are ever looking for a good activity for a group of 11 year old boys, send them running around after some chickens who know what's coming. They chased the chickens across my porch, behind the apartment, and finally up the stairs with Ya Ya in close pursuit. Ya Ya managed to catch both chickens at the same time, returning triumphantly down the stairs holding both chickens by the feet. After that the boys took over the chicken killing show.

They cut the chickens' throats, they stood on the chickens' feet until their bodies stopped moving, they dipped the dead birds in a pot of boiled water and they plucked the feathers off the birds. After we cut up the birds, I tried to give the parts that Americans don't throw on the grill to the boys to take home to their families. They hemmed and hawed until what they really wanted finally came out: To take the hearts and livers and feet and grill them themselves, right then. If they took the meat home, they might not get any of it and they certainly wouldn't get much.

So I gave the boys a box of matches, pointed them toward the firewood and went back inside. The boys lit the fire, balanced the grill on some rocks over the flames and put their chicken on the grill. Boris came in a few minutes later looking for salt and pepper. After twenty minutes or so, they finished cooking the chicken and sat around the porch eating. After they were finished, they cleaned up their plates and began sweeping up the feathers and rinsing off the chicken blood from the concession. After they'd cleaned up, they came back inside for another round of Uno. I have a hard time picturing a group of 11 year old American boys taking care of themselves and others like these boys do.