The Family Business

I am surrounded by teachers.  My mother, sister, aunt, cousins and numerous friends: all teachers.  Given my innate aversion to children, I was perfectly happy to let this hereditary vocation pass over me.  Sure, I yearned for their ample summer and holiday breaks but when it came down to it the extra time off wasn’t worth the 180-something days of thankless exhaustion. 

But there I stood:  impotent and defeated in a barren dirt classroom.  Unruly Picassos were snatching chalk and scribbling sloppy masterpieces everywhere their tiny arms could stretch.  A gang war raged savagely in the far corner.  Dueling despots had torn rulers from the wall and were whacking the board with authority as they lorded over their stick-less compatriots.  Every available inch of my body had a child attached to it – grabbing, poking, examining.  Still more stampeded through the available floor space.  A chorus of foreign nursery rhymes taunted me from just outside the door, sounding increasingly more like a battle hymn.

And it had all started so innocently….

One of the issues I have been working on with CEFASE is violence reduction, particularly for women and children.  Cameroon remains a largely traditional and patriarchal society.  Here wives are “purchased” through the dowry system and are viewed as property of their husbands.  Female genital mutilation is still a common traditional practice in the northern regions, brutalizing as many as 20% of Cameroonian women according to the World Health Organization.  Spousal abuse is not viewed as legal grounds for divorce, and while rape is a criminal offense, men are exempted from punishment if they agree to marry the victim.  All of these practices have contributed a culture where over 80% of women are the victims of domestic violence, according to the US Ambassador.

CEFASE tackles domestic violence head on, meeting directly with couples and families in rural villages to discuss women’s rights, peaceful resolution of conflict and the impact of domestic violence on families and communities.  Seminars are held to teach women how to recognize the forms of abuse, what their rights are and how to report violence.  Most importantly, CEFASE works to establish a culture where violence is not tolerated by working with village chiefs to establish vigilant committees that encourage reporting and enforce penalties for abuse.

But the problem is not just in marriages – it is in a deep rooted cultural acceptance of violence.  Children grow up witnessing domestic violence in their homes and are commonly subjected to violent discipline by their parents and even teachers.  It becomes ingrained in them as a traditional behavior; boys grow up thinking violence is normal and girls grow up thinking it is deserved.  In fact, a recent UN survey showed that 55% of Cameroonian women think beating is a justifiable punishment for a perceived neglect of their children.  The percentage approaches 90% in the rural villages.

To break this cycle, CEFASE works with parents and teachers to educate them about the impact of violence on childhood development and provide tips to manage children’s behavior peacefully. The goal is to remove violence as a disciplinary measure to help solidify the practice of peaceful conflict resolution for the next generation – stopping the cycle of violence against women.

It was at one of these trainings that my story began.  I was standing in front of about twenty-five primary school teachers at a very rural school outside Yaounde, extolling the virtues of non-violent education.  (Don’t worry…the irony of the only non-teacher in my family standing up there telling teachers how to do their job has not escaped me.)  I encouraged them to create a positive learning environment through colorful pictures and collaboratively setting classroom rules.  I advised them to use positive reinforcement to foster good behavior – “choose a student of the day!”  And when all else failed, try things like a time out chair to manage misbehavior.  My personal favorite was the smirking disbelief on their faces when I tried to say that you can quiet a classroom just by silently holding up your hand and waiting until all the children join you. 

After the training, the headmistress came up to thank me.  She thanked me for teaching them new methods because at the school down the street they were hitting a child and he turned into an animal!  Alright so their motivations might not be altruistic, but if it prevents even a few cane beatings then I am considering it a job well done.  It was at this moment that she asked if I would be willing to come back and work with the children, get them excited to learn English.  Marsha, who was standing next to me, jumped in enthusiastically, “Oh, that would be fun!”  Speak for yourself Marsha….

But nonetheless, I agreed and a few days later we traipsed back to the school armed with lesson plan ideas solicited from my teacher entourage.  I was put into a pre-nursery, nursery and nursery school class with about thirty children aged about 4-7.  Although my absolute worst nightmare – I do not have the knack for talking to little ones.  I never know what to say and my discomfort is palatable even to them -- for awhile, things were going great.  They sat quietly, and even dutifully repeated the letters and shapes back to me.  When they rang a bell to indicate break time, I was feeling pretty good about myself.

However, after break the teacher went to see the headmaster.  And that is when all hell broke loose.  Newly energized from their break-time snack and play, these sweet little tikes turned into a horde of demons.  I would separate two from a headlock, only to turn around and find three more wrestling on the floor.  I would confiscate the last piece of rogue chalk, only to have some infiltrator for another room restock the black market supply so I’d find my carefully drawn school bus irrevocably defaced.  Forget teaching, I became a cage-match referee.  And soon I wasn’t even refereeing….I was just trying to survive.  The kids pulled at my hands and legs, grabbed at my clothes, pulled my hair from behind.  There were so many of them around me I couldn’t even move.  My desperate pleas to “stop that!” and “sit down!” were easily drowned out by the warrior cries, dictator tirades and rebellion songs of the masses.  I am only grateful I wasn’t wearing my glasses, or I am sure I would have suffered the same fate as Piggy.  It was survival of the fittest in that room, and they had the home-court advantage.

Just when I was about to give up and head for the hills, a voice boomed “Why are you not in your seats?”  Instantly these miniature warriors transformed back into adorable angelic children.  The teacher strode across the room with confidence, picked up a piece of chalk and returned the lesson like nothing had happened.  I felt like I was in the eye of a tornado – just a few minutes before it was utter mayhem but now it was eerily normal. 

Unwilling to wait for the phase two, I politely thanked the teacher for letting me come to her classroom and ran.  As I left, all the children stood in unison and said in their best sing-song voice “Thank you Auntie Tracey.”   Children are jerks.

Celebrations

It’s official – I am now in my late twenties.

Although twenty-six was certainly not my best year on record, I was still sad to bid farewell to another fragment of my youth.  But if one must face the relentless march of time, I suppose you might as well make it memorable. And although perhaps not the most action packed, my 27^th birthday will always stand out.

Although absolutely not related to my birthday at all, I consider Wednesday evening the official start of the celebrations.  That night Marsha (a new volunteer, more on her later) and I were invited to a dinner hosted by the sister of Marsha’s best friend – a native Cameroonian who now lives in the US.  In the African tradition, her best friend has a large family and we have met with a dizzying array of the Yaounde contingent over the past few days.

But on Wednesday it was the whole shebang – every family member, spouse and child gathered together for a feast of Thanksgiving proportions.  Lor, our dedicated hostess, grilled these GIANT beautiful fish over a woodstove.  Not only were absolutely stunning, it was some of the best fish I have had in my life.  To accompany these showpieces, she prepared two delicious sauces – one a hot pepper blend which I have fallen in love with here and the other a chopped collection of herbs almost reminiscent of a pesto.   There was also a carrot salad with onions and boiled eggs; fried plantains; some sort of banana cake/bread; cassava ground into a pulp and then cooked in leaves into a hard gelatin (lesson—cassava sucks in all forms); a heaping loaf of crusty French bread and fruit skewers of pineapple, guava and papaya. 

Marsha had brought numerous photos of her friend and his young children, who the family had not yet seen.  While the adults gathered around and shared priceless family stories in French, I staked out my territory at the children’s table. I have honed my African child skills recently and identified three key strategies:  let them touch my hair, offer to take their picture and sing the Baby Shark song.  It’s a trifecta that no child can resist and has resulted in a plethora of cliché photos I will proudly display as a testament to my commitment to diversity for years to come.  There was one older girl who was particularly fascinated with my camera and took it upon herself to become the self-appointed event photographer.  She walked around posing people, straightening clothes adjusting angles…it was both adorable and helpful.

At the end of the night, Eric – the brother who we have spent the most time with – presented us with gifts.  I received a beautiful wood bead bracelet which I genuinely like and plan to wear frequently.  For people neither of us had met before and I personally had no connection to, it was an incredibly heartwarming and generous gesture.  And there was one last surprise in store:  Eric offered to bring us home on his motorbike.  Yaoundé is a large city based on a series of mountains, and the crisp clear night offered sweeping views of a twinkling “city”.  It was a view I hadn’t seen before, not frequently being out past dark, and one I am glad I got to experience with the wind blowing through my hair.

That weekend Marsha and Eric were going to visit the grave of her friend’s wife, who died of cancer in the US but was returned to her native village for burial.  Due to scheduling conflicts, they were taking an 11pm bus on Friday so before they left we met up for a drink.  Eric asked us what we would like to which I replied “Just a beer – whatever you recommend.”  What arrived:  a Smirnoff Ice.  I think Eric meant well, but all I could think was “I just got Iced in Africa.”  (To explain, “Iced” is a game us aging youngsters play where you hide bottles of Smirnoff Ice in creative locations.  Whoever stumbles upon them must kneel down and chug it immediately.  This is considered punishment, because Smirnoff Ice is a carbonated, saccharine bottle of disgusting).

When I got home, Celestine was dancing alone in the living room.  Dear friends, the stereotypes are true.  Not only does the average five year old have better rhythm then me, all the women have these incredible, round, gravity-defying rumps that move and shake as though they have a separate motor system us white people were genetically denied.  I have developed a serious amount of envy during my time here and Celestine’s grove fest was doing nothing to help my ego.  In a moment of Smirnoff Ice-bravado, I beseeched Celestine to teach me the intricate mysteries of the African booty bounce.  So there we were:  lined up in front a mirror, Celestine’s hands on my hips, me spastically bouncing and asking “Am I doing it?!”….when Romeo walked in.  He immediately burst out laughing and called to the girls who had been hiding in their rooms.  Once the hysterics stopped, Carole grabbed her computer and put on some Beyonce.  Now this was more my speed and I was happy to lead the soul train, making it quite clear in fact Who Run the World.  However, despite his mockery Romeo was conspicuously stationary. 

Saturday, my actual birthday, was pretty uneventful.  I took it upon myself to luxuriate in all the finest things Africa has to offer: I slept all the way until nine, bought myself a breakfast treat at the bakery, went to the internet café and then sat out on a patio reading a book, drinking a beer (a real beer this time) and eating some street meat.  The highlight:  I was able to schedule a telephone call with my parents!  I do not have a phone here in Cameroon, so I had to rely on Celestine to let me borrow hers.  Given the time difference, Celestine’s church schedule and the general unpredictability of Africa this was the first time we had connected live since we met on safari over two months ago.  It was the perfect way to end my birthday—with a touch of home.

But I had one more celebration in store. Celestine orchestrated a gathering for me that Sunday, inviting several of our friends and the CEFASE members over for dinner.  Armstrong and Dr. Elo came with two bottles of wine in hand, the girls gave me a necklace and Marsha brought me a “birthday sack” with spare headphones (!), a coveted bar of chocolate and some of the African soap I have fallen in love with (it can get absolutely ANYTHING out of your clothes).  Celestine made a delicious dinner of rice, stew, fish sandwiches, fruit and even a birthday cake.  Speeches were made, toasts were given and many laughs were had. 

While I can’t say I didn’t feel a little homesick, complete with severe waves of jealousy at the rowdy bash I know Boudah was putting on to commemorate our shared birth, all in all I know I will look back on my 27^th birthday as one for the record books.  Added bonus:  I didn’t even see a single cockroach.

The Story of Celestine

As I mentioned, I am here working with CEFASE --  a women’s organization dedicated to improving the living conditions of the underprivileged in Cameroon.  CEFASE focuses on capacity building and sustainable community development in four key areas:  agriculture, violence prevention, vocational training and health education. 

CEFASE is the creation of one dedicated woman, Celestine Youonzo.  You may have read some of my depictions of Celestine, who is certainly an interesting character.  But she is also a fiercely passionate, committed and empathetic woman.  Like Augustine, she has donated much of her personal finances, countless hours of her time, and the entirety of her heart to her cause. 

Today I want to tell you her story.  While not as dramatic as Augustine, I still believe it is worth sharing.  Extraordinary circumstances are not required for extraordinary compassion.

Celestine grew up in a rural village in the West Region of Cameroon.  She is the first-born of six:  three boys and three girls.  Celestine recently turned 42 and her youngest sister, who still lives at home in the village, is just 16.  As you may have noticed, Celestine is the “mother hen” of the group – taking in and providing for a rotating cadre of family members.

Although now a devout Catholic, Celestine was raised in a traditional religion.  Her family would leave sacrifices out for the gods at the base of a tree – money, slaughtered goats and hens, etc.  Celestine laughs now and says she understand it was not the gods, but the ants that would eat the sacrifices.  My particular favorite of her village traditions:  10 years after your family members die you dig up their corpse and place the skull in a special room for worship. 

First…can you imagine digging up a 10 year old skeleton?!  Second, just think of how terrifying that room must be – human skulls of all your ancestors?!  Celestine began having premonitions that someone in the village wanted to sacrifice HER to the gods.  Conveniently, it was about this time that she found a Bible and made the conversion to Christianity.

Celestine’s commitment to helping the underprivileged began at an early age.  While still in primary school, Celestine met two disabled classmates.  Although both faced discrimination, one was from a modest family who could afford a wheelchair.  The second could not.  He was forced to rely on someone to carry him to and from school every day and would crawl in between classes.  Often times no one was available to carry him, and as a result he was unable to finish his primary degree. 

Celestine graduated secondary school and was fortunate enough to attend university in Yaoundé. Behind the bakery where she worked during the holidays was a very poor family.  The children would come and beg for bread – no matter how old it was.  Their bellies were swollen from malnutrition; even with the handouts she snuck them these children were starving.  These inequalities nagged at Celestine, and developed in her a sense of social responsibility.  It was then that she realized she wanted to do something to help.

Following her graduation, Celestine completed a secretary training class on computers and got a job in an internet café.  She says she spent most of her time there helping African women set up dating profiles to attract white husbands.  However,  at the café, she met a French man who recognized her passion and commitment and offered to make connections for her in France to help her get her own organization started.  Personally, I think he liked her…but she was appalled at even the suggestion!

Celestine began talking to women in church and around her neighborhood.  As I mentioned, an outward-facing philanthropic organization is a novel concept to the people of Cameroon where the majority of organizations focus on exclusively helping the members.  The response was lukewarm at best; most told her she was crazy.  However, Celestine remained committed and was able to recruit ten members.  Together they wrote a constitution and mission statement and CEFASE was born.

Shortly after, Celestine was accepted into the school of social welfare in Cameroon.  What she learned there helped her organize and move the mission of CEFASE forward.  In October 2003, they received authorization from Cameroon to begin work as a non-profit, but Celestine was still working and in school so activities were limited.

After graduation Celestine went to get experience in the field -- working in an orphanage and an organization that worked in community development on education and children’s rights.  It was the practical skills she learned here that helped her advance and focus her work.

CEFASE activities began in earnest in 2008.  At that time, there still remained ten members, but numbers began to dwindle as people were unable to unwilling to the make the financial sacrifices or time commitment for the organization. In 2010, Celestine decided to commit herself full-time to CEFASE, leaving her job as a social worker.  She receives no compensation for her work, and in fact finances much of the activities out of her own personal pocket.

Today, there remain five invested members of CEFASE and they conduct on average about 6-10 community development projects per year, depending on available funds.  Projects vary from teaching modern composting techniques to farmers so they can rise above subsistence; targeting pervasive domestic violence in rural villages by teaching women’s rights, holding mediation session and establishing vigilant committed to encourage reporting; working to break the larger cycle of violence by teaching peaceful conflict resolution to parents and teachers; and offering vocation trainings such as sewing and hairdressing to widows and orphans.

I have grown to recognize that people like Celestine and Augustine are the backbone of their countries and the hope for the future.  In places victimized by generations of exploitation, crippled by educational and infrastructure limitations and victimized by countless wars and despots, these people remain hopeful.  They believe in building up their communities form the ground-up and in the idea that everyone needs to do their part for a better future.  It is people like these that inspire me; that remind me that although politics and humanitarian work can often be flawed, there is at its root…hope.   

A Slice of Life

On the whole, my life here is not very exciting:  eat, work, exercise, read, sleep and repeat.  But there are some documentable items mixed into my daily fabric.  In an effort to give you a full picture of life here, below are some of them. (confession: some of these are a bit dated)

·         I discovered a small lizard friend living in my room.  We have come to comfortable co-habitation: he eats most of the bugs while I hide his existence from Celestine’s murderous foot.  I keep my suitcase zipped and my mosquito net tucked tight so we don’t get too acquainted.  Potential names include Pierre and Eduardo.  Feedback welcomed.

 

·         If you think back to your freshman year of college, you may recall just how difficult it can be to shower in flip flops.  Once wet, they become slippery mechanisms of big-toe suicide.  It was during one of these precarious situations that I had an experience that very surely would have ended my time in Africa:  I slipped and nearly stepped into the pit toilet hole.  Now, these suckers are deep so it is unlikely I would have connected with the pool at the bottom.  However, they are not straight drops and the side accumulation would have been enough horror for one lifetime, maybe two.  Had this happened, I would have given up on Africa that very minute and returned to my now Forever Unclear life in the States (not to mention I probably would have broken my leg). 

·         We have officially entered the rainy season in Cameroon, which means that for a few hours a day it downpours.  Delightfully, this has exasperated the leaks in the roof so the house now features an obstacle course of drip-collecting buckets.  Celestine offered to put a tarp over the top of my mosquito net, which has the added bonus of preventing me from witnessing the collection of dead bugs which eventually accumulates up there.  (I can only assume they fall from the ceiling dead, otherwise lizard friend is not holding up his end of the bargain).  Thankfully the only leak in my room to date is in the far corner.

·         There has been a tragedy of the First World proportions:  my headphones are on the fritz.  They still work but require exact positioning, little jostling and extreme patience.  I can only assume they have been cavorting with their underutilized African brethren and are now protesting their workload.  This is extremely upsetting to me because I rely on them for so much – blocking out the creepy crawly night sounds and obnoxious neighbors, music when working out, a way to mediate the awkwardness of sitting silently while other people converse in French around you.  Second in importance only to my mosquito net, my headphones provide me with a tiny little world of Western solace.  Thankfully, I found a second pair of the crappy airplane variety stashed in my bag as an emergency option…but the day these little buggers give out will be a sad one indeed.  Thanks for the shoddy work, Apple.

·         It was recently election day in Cameroon.  They have a pretty similar system to us, with a judicial, legislative and executive branch.  The main difference is they have both a Prime Minister and President, both of which have been in power for decades.  Celestine lamented against the corruption in the system, saying the winners were decided well before the votes were cast.  However, she also said that it was her duty as a Cameroonian to vote regardless of whether she thought it counted.  If she didn’t vote, she was not helping to change the system and therefore could not complain about the outcome.  Granted, she didn’t know a thing about the candidates and vowed to chose based on the names when she arrived.  But still, there is the hint of a civic lesson in there for all of you apathetic Americans.

·         There has been no water for over a week now.  We have resorted to using what is collected in buckets when it rains, and then using a “natural filter” to strain it.  This means that any non-essential activities are curbed.  We all smell.  Badly.  But more pressing then that…I am out of underwear.  It is my own fault really, delaying the tedious laundry process until the last possible minute.  You think I would have learned after the last time, but no.  Fingers crossed….

·         Lilly is training to be a tailor and agreed to fulfill my African ambition of having a traditional dress made.  In fact, she offered to make three:  one for the house, one for church and one for fashion.  I am not quite sure what that means exactly, but she spent about an hour poring over magazines and scrutinizing me so I am optimistic.  As part of the process, she took me with her to the fabric market in town to pick out the materials.  It was a cramped and slightly horrifying series of alleyways, with a dizzying array of fabrics, zippers and buttons.  Lilly seemed to know everyone, including a female Rufio clone with a green mohawk weave complete with decorative shells. A true Cameroonian hero, if I do say so myself.

·         Celestine shared some local movies with me.  They have titles like “I am not Stupid” and “No War 2.”  The one we watched, called War Without End, featured multiple story lines.  The first was a woman who, although having three full grown daughters, was humiliated by her lack of a boy child.  So distraught was she, that she sought out the supposed miraculous powers of what turned out to be a false priest.  In another story line, a young girl lets a boy touch her “buttocks,” winds up pregnant, drinks a juice concoction that Celestine explained to me was an abortion elixir.  Not surprisingly, she winds up dead.   There was also a charming scene where one girl reaches out to fondle her sleeping roommate, who wakes up and extols her on the dangers of sin.  This prompted squeals of LESBIAN from Celestine and a reenactment of how she saw two ladies making out on the street once – wagging her tongue in the air and gesturing like you used to do in fourth grade singing K-I-S-S-I-N-G.  As you may have guessed, homosexuality is not accepted in Cameroon.

·         A recent news story has captivated the house:  a family was discovered living with the dead corpse of the mother for SIX MONTHS.  Apparently they kept praying for her resurrection, believing the spirit was still in the house.  It gets better….the husband SLEPT IN THE BED with the corpse for this time. Can you imagine?!  They actually said the first few weeks were the worst as the corpse…well…started to decompose, but they eventually got used to it.  This has become Celestine’s new favorite story to tell.  Truthfully, I don’t blame her -- it is the most exciting thing I have heard since I got here.

·         While in the fruit market the other day with Lilly, I pulled out my camera to take a photo of the various vendors.  With the sun shining bright, their colorful produce just looked so very appealing.  I was quickly SHUT DOWN and yelled at profusely.  Apparently, many people here object to having their photo taken.  Lilly explained that it was largely the uneducated women who still have very traditional beliefs – meaning voodoo and tribal magic.  So I am probably cursed now….

It's the Little Things...

Today marks my 102^nd day in Africa.  It alternately feels like a lifetime and like no time at all.  Often both in the same day.

Many of you have probably read some of these posts in horror, recoiling at my descriptions and anecdotes: rats in the ceiling, cold bucket showers over a feces-filled hole, the persistent buzz of mosquitoes or skittering of cockroaches when you turn on a light.  Don’t get me wrong, there are moments when these things put me on the verge of tears.  But they are also the things you learn to deal with – steel yourself against.   

Instead I have found it is the little things that I miss the most.

To all of you comfortably living in the first world, below is a list of items I want you to appreciate today….for me:

·         Cold Drinks -- It is apparently not a priority to refrigerate beverages, and since you can’t drink the water you also can’t have ice.  As we enter the African summer, this becomes more and more irritating.

·         Fluffy Towels -- I have been using the equivalent of a sham-wow for months now and although effective it is just not satisfying.

·         Outlets – You get one if you are lucky and with sporadic electricity you better strategize and prioritize. And watch out, they all spark.

·         Mirrors -- I have been relying on the self-photo mode of my iPhone for far too long.

·         Rinsing Your Toothbrush -- Yes, I pour bottled water over it but it just not as effective as a solid faucet stream. Particularly when you are trying to do it one-handed in the dark with water you have to ration.

·         Being Barefoot – Parasites outside, same mop that cleaned the pit toilets inside.

·         Food Decisions – Limited selections in South Africa aside, I have lost the ability to decide what or when I want to eat.  In Cameroon particularly, it isn’t so much the food that is challenging, it’s waiting for be cattle-called for a culinary surprise.  Sometimes you just want eggs when they give you crepes.

·         Freedom of Speech – With English being the (limited) second language, I have to constantly be cautious of world selection and phrasing.  As my sister will attest, I like to exercise my vocabular dexterity and the simplicity of speech here is stifling. 

And while you are taking a moment to appreciate creature comforts, add these to your list:

·         Faucets

·         Stoves

·         Meat

·         Cheese

·         Chocolate

·         Diet Coke

·         Trash Cans

·         Mattresses

·         Laundry Machines

·         Owning more than Three Pairs of Pants

·         Sleeping without a Mosquito Net – many a night I wake up tangled in that thing

·         Reckless Consumption of Water – what does it matter you have to pee at 10pm, it won’t be into a bucket in your room!

·         Storage and Furniture – chances are, the floor is not your only option for personal effects

·         Auditory Respect – I will never complain about people’s headphones being too loud on the train ever again.  Headphones do not appear to be in vogue here, and people are perfectly fine listening to whatever they want, wherever they want, at whatever volume strikes their fancy.  Often with multiple people doing so simultaneously.

Now don’t get me wrong.  The first thing I will do when I get back is take a long shower, order a smorgasbord of food and probably drink several bottles of wine.  But right now, I would be happy to just not have to carry my own toilet paper.

A Night Out

This past weekend around 7:30pm there was a knock on the door.  This was a highly unprecedented event, particularly since all bodies were accounted for and assembled around the living room.  After staring blankly at each other for a sufficient period of time, Celestine finally rose and inquired about the mystery guest. 

It turned out to be two men, Armstrong and Dr. Elo, former colleagues of Celestine.  They settled in and Celestine, the interminable host, asked if she could get them anything.  Armstrong requested a beer, which Romeo was set out to fetch for the guests and myself.  I liked them already.

We made the usual small talk about how I like Cameroon, where I am from back home, how the weather is treating me, etc.  Both men were actually born in the English-speaking regions of Cameroon so for once I was able to fully participate in a conversation.  Towards the close of the evening, Armstrong turned to me and said that they wished to invite us out tomorrow night.  We agreed and a time was set, although the location was to remain a mystery.

About 45 minutes after the appointed hour, the men turned up….only to tell us they would be back in another hour.  Punctual for the second arrival time, we departed – climbing into Armstrong’s personal car, a welcome change from the rickety and perilous taxi rides I have become accustomed to.

We arrived at our destination: an outdoor bakery and bar.  While this was pretty much my dream situation, Celestine whispered to me that this was not what she had envisioned, “a place where everyone is just drinking and drinking.”  Determined to seize upon this rare opportunity, I chose to ignore her with a “what can you do” shrug.  Celestine ordered apple juice while Armstrong asked if I would be amendable to sharing a bottle of wine.  Yes please!

Shortly after the wine was delivered, another female friend of Armstrong’s arrived…followed by a plate of street meat skewers.  Now, protein is a rare treat here in Cameroon and when it is produced it is usually of the fish variety (skin in, tiny bones everywhere).  Not usually a devotee of red meat, even I have succumbed to literal dreams about a big, fat juicy steak.  So to me, this array of grisly mystery meat was heaven on a plate.  And that is not all; shortly after a bag of chocolate filled croissants materialized.  Wine, meat AND chocolate?!  Be still my heart…

Culinary delights aside, the real treat of the night was the conversation.  Clearly well acquainted, Armstrong had no problem teasing Celestine and prodding even her most stringent statements. Maybe this happens to Celestine a lot and is just in the language gap, but for me it was a real treasure to witness. 

Highlights include:

·         An anecdote about a former intern at their company who, after a night out, revealed that she was a bisexual.  The sheer existence of this type of person shocked Armstrong, who regaled me with the various questions he asked of her (“Can you really get the same pleasure from both?”)  This transitioned into a discussion of the prevalence of homosexuality in the West, particularly transgendered persons, and a raucous debate as to whether this is a result of decreased social stigma comparative to Africa, environmental upbringing, a lack of religion or a psychological imbalance.  To my surprise, the crowd was a 50/50 split.

·         A question was posed: If you were on a sinking ship and could only save one person, would it be your father or your husband?  Being first to bat, I took an ambiguous approach fearful of stepping on cultural landmines:  it depends on how good my husband is to me and if we have children.  Celestine put it in the hands of God, saying he would make the choice for her.  Armstrong advocated the wife, using the logic that his mother had lived a long life, and the pretense that a truly good mother would tell him to choose his own wife over her.  His female companion rallied to the father’s cause: “I can get another husband, I only have one father.”  Much debate ensued, and for once…I could actually understand!

·         Celestine mentioned my impending birthday, at which point we discovered that Armstrong’s is only a few days after.  Noticing my depression when forced to confess that I would be turning 27, he asked about what the cultural implications of this are.  After much back and forth, it came down to one issue, the same one mothers across the world have been harping on for generations:  When are you going to get married and have children?  I came all the way across the globe and I still can’t escape it! 

·         Both men work in an international non-profit focused on street children.  They were kind enough to fill me in on some of the background and root causes, providing interesting insight into the traditional culture here in Cameroon.  Polygamy is common, but men are only allowed four wives.  If he should decide he wants a new one, he can divorce the initial wife and kick her and the children out – frequently out of the village entirely.  Children are also seen as workhorses here; like the pioneer days of yore families breed herds of them to assist with the farm.  Education is considered a waste of time, detracting from the real work needed at home.  Schoolmasters will sometimes circle the villages rounding up children to attend school, and Dr. Elo has encountered families who actively hide their children when this happens.

·         This led to a discussion of the culture of philanthropy here.  Dr. Elo spoke of a man in a taxi who turned to him and expressed an interest in donating food and clothes to the street children.  Dr. Elo described this as “giving out of pity.”  He said instead he should invest in programs to help them find a job or get educated -- something to build their future.  An age-old concept, but I liked his choice of phrasing. Armstrong also offered an interesting perspective on the giving culture in Cameroon, putting into words a sentiment I had struggled with.  African people are very generous; they will go out of their way to help you, support a neighbor and offer you their absolute best.  But their giving is local and direct.  There is no institution of philanthropy here and people do not understand the bigger picture of giving.  Remedying this would require a broad shift in thinking, which is made even more challenging by the innate distrust people have of large-scale institutions that in Cameroon are frequently corrupt.

The night was not without a few cultural hiccups: the men were appalled that this trip was not financed by some big unseen rich hand in the States; the idea of being cut off at the bar was as abhorrent to them as the lack of drunk driving laws here was to me; Celestine tattled about my jump rope habit which led a painful and somewhat embarrassing explanation of the American concept of “staying in shape.”

All in all…a truly enjoyable night with interesting people.  It was a breath of fresh air to be able to converse easily in my native language and their candor was greatly appreciated.  I am sure the wine helped too J  It is nights like this, and people like this, that remind me again why I chose to come here in the first place.

UPDATE:
Romeo bought me a bracelet with my name on it the day after our most recent encounter.  I think it was his peace offering.  In truth, he is partially at fault for not putting the metal gate over the door.  Either way...the plan is back in action!

Viva La Résistance!

As you may have gathered, music is a big part of life here in Cameroon.  When Celestine is gone, the siblings bust out their non-gospel tunes and it becomes straight 2003 up in here.

However, they still rely on CDs played through the computer.  Seeing an opportunity to bridge the language gap and secure my budding friendships, I showed Carole how to rip the CDs into iTunes so she doesn’t have to switch back and forth all the time.

My reward:  James Blunt on repeat.  “You’re beautifulllll….You’re beautiful…” 

I hated this song the first time around and unlike “Pocket Full of Sunshine” in Easy A, constant repetition did not engender any more affectionate feelings in me.

But I did find an ally:  Romeo.  Around the fourth or fifth rotation of this song, Romeo stomped into their bedroom and returned with headphones which he thrust at Carole.  I laughed, which opened the door. 

Now, I have suspected a kindred spirit in Romeo before.  He customarily watches TV on his phone (it has an adorable little antennae which pulls out), and we have passed a few hours watching break dance videos together.  He also once came rushing over to show me a fuzzy image of Barack Obama holding a press conference.  The static was too loud to make out what Obama was saying, but Romeo was clearly proud so I acted enthusiastic.  Romeo is also a football (soccer) fan, and Celestine has made him promise to take me to an upcoming home game. And he is the only one in the house who drinks.  In short, he is my BFF who I can’t say more than five words to.  Together we would form an alliance – viva la resistance!

I had a plan.  I would offer to load my music onto Carole’s computer. I figured this would not only decrease the probability of James Blunt, but also give Romeo a stake in the game.  If he had access to music he liked, perhaps he could lobby for me in language and cultural absentia.

However, a lot of my music is hip hop and laden with that constant-deficient word which straddles the racist line.  Having made that mistake in Uganda, I couldn’t give Carole free reign.  So I set about the onerous process of wedding out any inappropriate music while still trying to find things they would like – after all, the motivation behind this was still a desperate ploy for acceptance.

Thumb drive loaded, I put my plan into action through a series of gestures.  Then I bided my time waiting for Celestine to leave and the party to get hopping.  But alas – Romeo did not come home!  Fortunately not all was lost; we spent the next two hours listening to Beyonce and throwback Destiny’s Child. (surprisingly, Britney was not a hit with this crowd)

But then something happened that may have put an end to this coalition before it even started.  I went out to use the pit toilet before bed with my awesomely attractive headlamp strapped on.  As usual, I entered with urgency in an attempt to get this over as quickly as possible but as I lunged past the dividing curtain I collided with something.  That something turned out to be Romeo…squatting.  That’s right friends.  I kicked my new ally in the shins while he was taking a poop.  To make matters worse, the headlamp clearly illuminated (and blinded) him for the full duration of time it took my confused brain to process what the hell happened and formulate an escape plan (obviously, I mumbled horrified apologies, ran back to my room and didn’t emerge until after he was gone the next morning.  There was no other reasonable course of action.)

Viva la resistance?

Adventures with Celestine

Celestine is what you might politely describe as a “character.”  A fearless, opinionated and often brusque woman, she is the type to dictate the route to a cab driver.  These characteristics are what have enabled her to, nearly singlehandedly, found and run CEFASE.

They have also made her a bit of a wild card: inadvertently severe, often trying and unintentionally hilarious.

I already shared with you her valor in the face of mouse adversity; plucking it from my sheets and squishing it with her flip-flop clad foot (something I still have not recovered from).  But in this post, I endeavor to give you a better picture of my life with Celestine.

As referenced, Celestine is prone to haphazard outbursts of song.  She has a deep, slightly gruff voice that tonelessly infiltrates every room in the house – and likely the adjoining ones given the thinness of the walls.  Many times I have stumbled upon her, eyes closed, in the middle of an impromptu African boogie.  My favorite variation was to a song called Let’s Knock Out Malaria, really finding her groove at the line “sleep with your malaria net, every night, every every single niiiiight”.

Recently Celestine barged into my room and proudly announced that a donor emailed about making a gift.  She gave me a high five (another pastime of hers) and pulled me into the living room to take a look.  It was a one line, unsigned email from a corporate address.  Skeptical of its validity, I encouraged her to google the company name.  Their landing page named them as the premier provider of amateur erotica.  Apparently I underestimated the language barrier because Celestine forged ahead; verifying she was over 18 and entering the site.  For once in the history of African internet, the page actually loaded quickly – before I could figure out the culturally appropriate way to say “this is porn.”  So there we sat…a web page of bouncing boobs in front of us.  Celestine was stunned, appalled and crestfallen.  I was dying inside.

Celestine believes very deeply in her religion: a form of born-again Anglicism if I understand it correctly.  As such, she does not drink alcohol because it “blurs her relationship with the Lord.”  However, there appears to be exceptions to this rule.  When in the village, I found her weeding the cassava field, singing and dancing with a half empty jug of palm wine beside her – at 10am.  She did not share.  This deep-rooted holy connection has also made her clairvoyant.  To date, these premonitions have only come to light after they have proven true…but she is adamant and vocal about her far-reaching powers.

Another of my favorite Celestine moments occurred just the other day.  I have a jump rope that I exercise with in my room.  At breakfast one morning Celestine asked me about the unusual sounds she had heard the day before.  After much back and forth to explain the concept of jumping rope for exercise, she demanded I get it and clear out the living room furniture so she could try.  It made for an amusing show while I crammed down my two giant oil-soaked crepes.  Turns out that, although spastic in her approach, she is better at it than me!  But the best was yet to come.  Celestine, dripping in sweat, whipped out a massage book and a floor mat from some previously unknown cranny and proceeded to demand that I give her a full massage; step by step as the book outlines it.  Since she was telling not asking, I dutifully proceeded to rub her down to the soundtrack of “Unbreak my Heart” which was blaring from the neighbor’s radio.  Such is Celestine…

She takes a bit of getting used to.  She will bellow out your name and you are expected to untangle yourself from the mosquito net and appear immediately; often for simple things like help tying her headscarf or choosing her outfit.  She constantly critiques how much I eat, which is apparently far too little but I am sorry I cannot stomach more than four potatoes in one day. Under the guide of improving my French, she will randomly refuse to speak to me in English -- continually repeating the same question over and over in rapid fire.  However, she never tells me the translation so as far as I am concerned this is just a fun guessing game where I run through my entire stock of French phrases until she seems satisfied.

Celestine certainly is not afraid to speak her mind.  For example, Kate was sick to her stomach before she left and Celestine decided that she was not allowed bread, her preferred food of choice, and instead must eat only fried foods.  Because a belly full of grease is exactly what you want when you are nauseous.  Her righteousness extends to even the little things: she has expressed open disappointment in my failure to adequately wash my shoes before venturing to the internet café, despite the fact that it was pouring outside and we were about to walk through a giant mud hole anyway.

All of this can be challenging, particularly because you are forced to rely on her for so much.  But I choose to believe that it is done out of love and likely the result of having escorted countless clueless foreigners through this strange and challenging country.  Furthermore, I suspect nuances of the English language are lost on her, making some of what she considers innocent requests ring spiteful on our ears.  For example, when meals are ready Celestine will roar “Tracey!  Please, can you eat?”  It comes across exasperated, but what she really means is “Dinner is ready.”

Personally, I am the type to find humor in the obnoxious and view Celestine as more of an amusing ally then a frustrating overlord.  However, I suspect Kate felt very differently and not without just cause.  The upside is that Celestine expects you to be as forthcoming as she is – something I commonly struggle with but have been forced to face during my weeks here. 

Even with all that, Celestine is quick to laugh and can certainly be a good time.  She may not have the genial disposition of Susan and Augustine, but she has welcomed me into her life with open arms.  And for now, we are stuck together.  With everything else you deal with in Africa, there is not much left to do but laugh and dance right along with her.

Life on the Cultural Periphery

Africans hate sleep.  It has to be some deep cultural abhorrence.  Or they are all machines. 

It is the only possible explanation for how they can go to bed at 11pm, wake at 1am and pray/chant for a couple of hours, then rise again at 5am to start their day – a routine fastidiously followed by both Celestine and Susan.  I know…because I hear them.

Further evidence of their ostensible disdain for restfulness:  they have no qualms about proceeding about business at full volume, regardless of the slumber status of others.  

Most mornings, I wake between 5-6am to the sound of music, and not the harmonious von Trapp variety either.  This comes in two forms:  either the neighbor is bumping tunes at  volumes loud enough to battle even the most raucous of frat parties; or Celestine is rummaging around the house singing the same line of a gospel song over and over again at the top of her lungs (God is good, God is good, God is gooooood). 

While both are preferable to the persistent and erratic crowing of a rooster in Uganda or worse yet the petulant buzzing of an alarm clock in the States, neither is exactly a pleasurable beginning.  Particularly since the God is Good theme usually persists at whim throughout the remainder of the day. (I preferred the reliable “Yes Lord, Yes Lord, Yes Yes Lord” repertoire of the Uganda gospel DVD)

Not being a morning person myself, I have created, at least in my own mind, a sort of morning code.  When I finally abandon the fruitless pretense of returning to sleep, I emerge from my room and plug in my computer to only available outlet located in the living room.  I then return, grumpily, to my darkened mosquito net sanctuary and wait.  Upon seeing this sign of my existence, breakfast preparations commence.  When it is ready and set upon the table about an hour later, a shrill “TRACEY” is exclaimed and I am given about 10 seconds to show my face at the table before it begins again in rapid repetition.

Asking to help in the preparation of this breakfast, or in the washing of last night’s dishes, is useless.  I am always greeted with a bemused smile…and then a stern no.  I have discovered it is better for me to simply hide and nurse my inevitably ruffled feathers from the wake up call.

Here in Cameroon, meals are not communal.  In fact, they will frequently prepare different food for me entirely.  This means I eat silently at the table while the rest of the family goes about their daily business.  This is even more uncomfortable at dinner times with Celestine, the only one conversant in English, off at church five nights a week.  That leaves me with the siblings whose French conversations swirl uncomprehendingly about me.  If on the off chance we end up to be eating at the same time, they sit at an entirely different table.  Exiled. 

As I mentioned, the food here is much better than Uganda.  That has not stopped me from adding a new food to my nemesis list:  okra.  Not being a devotee of Oprah, I have never had okra at home.  As with many food items here, it is quite possible the African variety of okra is an entirely different species then the version we found at home.  But here it turns all it touches into a thick slippery pool, reminiscent of Nickelodeon Gak.  It has earned the honor of being the second thing I literally gagged on in Africa.

Given that we work out at Celestine’s home, and we are in a more metropolitan area, I have a greater degree of independence than I did in Lira.  This means I can do very exciting things like….buy water, sneak to the bakery or even venture to the internet café without the assistance of others.  Thrilling prospects, I know.  It was actually one of these such adventures that I came across one of my favorite signs to date:  the motto of a local high school “Fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom.” 

There are only two obstacles to my otherwise unadulterated independence:  I don’t speak French well and I don’t have a key to the house.  The first limits my explorations to places previously visited or within walking distance.  The second means I have more than once returned from such ventures to find myself locked out.  Or, even better, awoken to find bread and tea on the table and no one home….in essence, locked IN. 

Such is life on the cultural periphery….