I try not to use this blog as a
space to complain because I don’t really think that’s what it should be for.
But this has been a tough week for Peace Corps Cameroon (and if you’re keeping
up with the news, Peace Corps in general) so please forgive this less-than-enthusiastic
post. The major news here was the closure of Peace Corps operations in the
North region. This has been coming for quite a while now, as the situation with
Boko Haram has been escalating. The final blow was struck this past week after
another kidnapping, and we got the official news on Wednesday that all
remaining Volunteers will be relocated within the next two weeks. At this point
there were only 13 Volunteers still stationed in the North Region but most of
them are from my training group so the news hit pretty hard. To all of the
displaced Volunteers I wish the best of luck and my most sincere “ashia”.
I certainly can’t claim to be an
expert on the security situation in Nigeria or Cameroon, but I want to assure
you all that all of the attacks have taken place quite far from where I’m
currently living; my best estimate would put the closest at least a three-day’s
trip away from me. In the US, you can get from Minnesota to Texas in two days (and
I’m speaking from experience on that one). Just think about that. Anyway, in
comparison to that kind of major blow, my struggles this week are exceedingly minor. But they still
rattled me in a way that I wasn’t quite comfortable with, and I’d like to think
they’re worth sharing.
The first happened on my way home
from town earlier this week. I hailed a taxi, got the driver to agree to take
me where I was going (taxis routinely reject passengers if they’re not headed in
the direction the driver is going) and got into the front seat, as the back
seat was already occupied by two other passengers. This wasn’t unusual, as Cameroon
uses shared taxis as its primarily means of public transport. As I got in, the
driver looked at me and told me that the fare would be 300 francs (about
$0.60). I laughed at him, laughed, and told him that I would pay the usual
price, 250 francs. The taxi man looked at me and seemed surprised. “Oh, you
know how things work around here?” We both had a good chuckle about his failed
to attempt to cheat me, and the women in the back joined right in. There are
few things that Cameroonians love more than the public humiliation of others.
After this little incident, I
relaxed a bit. I had the front seat of the taxi all to myself (always a good
day), and the daily rains hadn’t started yet. I was looking out the window
enjoying the scenery when I happened to glance over at the driver. To my
dismay, he was in the process of opening a sachet (prepackaged plastic bag) of
whiskey with his teeth while driving. I exploded at him. Luckily, he hadn’t
gotten the sachet open yet, but seemed surprised by my outburst. I lectured him
on his responsibilities as our driver, the unacceptability of drinking and
driving (not to mention drinking while
driving) and the fact that he was currently on the job, not relaxing with his
friends. I should mention at this point that Cameroon has an extremely strong
drinking culture. Beers here are large and cheap, and palm wine is widely
available (at least in my region) and even cheaper. It’s extremely common to
see (primarily) men sitting around drinking all day long, and many professional
engagements include some sort of “refreshment” of the alcoholic sort. But there
has to be a line somewhere, and in my book drinking and driving is clearly on
the wrong side. My driver seemed nearly acceptably abashed, and left the sachet
in the console for the remainder of my ride. I reduced the fare that I paid as
a continuation of my disapproval, and exited the car with strict instructions
to the girl in back not to let him drink for as long as she was in the car. She
seemed to be in agreement, but hadn’t uttered a word throughout my entire
outburst. I think that unfortunately, this wasn’t nearly as surprising an event
for her as it was for me.
My second setback this week was
much less dangerous, but riled me up in a way that few things here do. It
started simply enough: one of my light bulbs burned out. I live in a decently
sized city, so replacing it was easy enough. I headed to one of the electronics
stores on Commercial Avenue and chose the best one I could find. I should
mention that this isn’t the way that many Cameroonians would solve this
problem, as the fact that my bulb burned out after about four months speaks to.
There doesn’t seem to be a lot of value placed on quality workmanship or
durability. Solving the immediate problem tends to take precedence over a
long-term repair. But I’m American, and I don’t like having to replace light
bulbs, so I chose a good one. The salesman tried to show me a smaller, cheaper
one with a different connector, but I figured he was just trying to play me and
insisted on my original choice. He told me it was 3500 francs ($7), which
sounded like way too much to pay for a light bulb, even a nice one. But the
rain was coming, and I wanted to get home before it started coming down, so I
gave him 2750, which was all I had, and got home before the rain came.
Of course, he knew what I needed
better than I did. It turns out that Cameroonian light bulb sockets are
different than American ones (why??) and I had bought a bulb that wasn’t
compatible with the socket it needed to go into. So, with my tail between my
legs, I returned to the store the next day and explained the situation to the
woman at the desk, who had luckily been there the day before. Returns aren’t
really a part of the Cameroonian shopping experience, so I was effectively
asking for special treatment. I took the smaller bulb with the correct
connector, and asked the price. She told me that it was 3000 francs, but that
she would give it to me for 2500. At this point, I knew she was ripping me off.
There was just no way that the smaller bulb was ever worth 2500 francs, and we
both knew it. That’s a lot of money here. So I did something that I probably
shouldn’t have. I accused her of giving me the white-man price. This is a
fairly common phenomenon here, as the above taxi situation suggests. There are
few fixed prices, and less than scrupulous vendors will often ask for a higher
price from customers that they think can afford it. This always includes
obvious foreigners, and no amount of time spent here will ever change the color
of my skin.
The book African Friends and Money Matters lends some insight into the
differences between the ways that Africans and Westerners view money and daily
business transactions. The author claims that by asking for a higher price, the
vendor is showing the customer that he recognizes the customer is in a high
economic class and is effectively honoring his status. This may be true, but it
just isn’t how it feels in the moment. I always feel like I’m being cheated or
taken for a fool, and in the case of the light bulb, I’m afraid it was the
latter.
Despite my misgivings about the
price, I realized there wasn’t much left to do. The difference between what I
had initially paid and the new light bulb was 250 francs, so I asked for it
back. The shopkeeper looked at me in surprise and told me that that was her
transaction fee. After all, it’s just 250 francs, right? Kind of a gift of
sorts. Well, that just wasn’t going to fly that day. She had already cheated me
twice (by this point I realized that I had overpaid for both bulbs) and I just
wanted my reimbursement. She finally agreed that I was, in fact, owed the
difference, but then told me that she would give me the money, just not that
day. What?! I asked when I could have
it back, and she told me to come back in a month. A MONTH?! She told me that
she simply didn’t have the money, and that I should come back when she did. I’m
not proud of what followed, but it may have involved some shouting on my part,
negotiations involving the taking of both light bulbs (even though I could only
use one of them), and a heated explanation of the differences between American
and Cameroonian businesses. Finally, she opened her purse and pulled out 250
francs. Of course she had it the whole time.
The kicker to this story comes
about an hour after I left the shop, after I learned the real price for the
bulb (1300 francs if you’re not a good bargainer, 1000 if you are) and returned
to my house to finally install it. It turns out there had just been a slight
electrical problem with the socket that was fixed when I adjusted it to install
the new bulb, meaning that the original bulb hadn’t burned out after all. You
win some, you lose some.
I guess what I’m trying to share
here isn’t my electrical ineptitude, but just the occasional struggles that
come from my role as such an obvious foreigner here. People try to cheat me on
a regular basis, but most of them just laugh and admit to it when you accuse
them of overcharging you. There’s definitely a good humor to it, at least most
of the time. What got me in this situation was just how much she took advantage
of my ignorance and refused to offer me what I considered basic customer service. I try not to compare American and
Cameroonian aspects of life any more than I have to, but in this case it was
kind of unavoidable. All I wanted was some light in my bedroom.
On the bright side, this week has
pointed out to me how much good a vacation from Cameroon will do me. See you in
a month, America!
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