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….