Just Horsing Around...

Early last week one of my neighbors asked if I wanted to join her and her family to watch the Northwest Regional Horse Race over the weekend. I’ve never been much of an equestrian enthusiast, but this sounded like the kind of event that I didn’t want to miss out on. As has become my custom, I tried to limit my expectations going in; the truth is that I just had no idea if I was headed to a Kentucky Derby knockoff or a casual few loops around a racetrack.

             Prior to the race I had seen very few horses during my time in Cameroon. There used to be one that was often tethered in my quarter, but after a neighbor told me that eating horsemeat is fairly common I stopped asking after its whereabouts.

            The race is being held in the main Bamenda stadium behind the Commercial Avenue, Bamenda’s main drag. My neighbors and I head down just after the 11AM start (the invitation says 11:00 prompt) and I’m nervous that we’ll miss the whole thing. After all, I can’t imagine that the horses run for more than a few minutes. Apparently I’m still a sucker for official Cameroonian scheduling.

            As we walk to the main gate, Asmahan, one of my neighbors, asks me if I’m more excited about the horse racing or the horse dancing. I look at her in confusion, and assure her that horses don’t dance. Just wait, she tells me. Just wait.

            After paying our 200CFA entrance fee (about $0.35) we enter the stadium and I’m amazed to see that the stands are filled and the racetrack is empty. Of course we haven’t missed it, but are instead waiting for the Prime Minister to arrive so the race can begin. It’s going to be a long wait. Luckily, the promised horse dancing is available to entertain us in the meantime. And it’s incredible. The horses are in costumes, the riders are incredibly skilled, and I’m happy to wait and watch all day long.

After three hours of horse dancing, incomprehensible conversations in Fulfulde (a local dialect), and lending my camera to my neighbors, I’m no longer happy to wait and watch all day long. My PCV friend Tommy, who had come to join my neighbors and me, suggests a lunch break and I’m happy to oblige. We head to one of the restaurants in town and enjoy a leisurely meal. As we’re settling the bill, I call to check in with one of my neighbors as to the status of the race. She tells me that the Prime Minister had already arrived, so the race should be starting soon. I head back to the stadium and although I adamantly refuse to pay the recently increased 500CFA entrance fee, I’m granted admittance. One of the benefits to never blending in is that you’re rarely forgotten, and one of the girls selling tickets reluctantly acknowledges that I’ve already paid my fee. In case you’re wondering, ticket stubs and hand stamping haven’t made it over here yet.

I arrive just in time to hear the introductions of each horse and rider. Incredibly, all of the jockeys are under the age of 18. I’m not sure if there’s a correlation, but (spoiler alert!) the winning horse is rode by the youngest jockey in the group, a small 13 year-old. This isn’t the place to get into this, but it is worth noting that all of the jockeys are male. I learned earlier in the day that one of the daughters of a missionary couple hadn’t been allowed to compete in the qualifiers the day before on the basis of her gender.

Suddenly, everything happens quickly. All of the horses line up and before I know it, the race has begun. It isn’t even close for a minute. I’m not aware of any betting that went on (surprising, given the popularity of betting for soccer games), but it wouldn’t have been an exciting race to bet on. The leader of the pack remains in the lead for all four laps and the race is over as quickly as it began. The winning time is just under 3:00, which would probably mean a bit more if I knew how long the track is.  

With the horse dancers looking on in the background, awards are given out to the three winning jockeys. Prizes range from 100,000CFA (just under $200) to 200,000 for the winner. Given that the latter is more than my monthly living allowance (a generous sum itself), that’s quite the prize for a boy of 13. I’m not sure how horse-related expenses work in Cameroon, or if they’re anywhere near their American counterparts. But rest assured, I’m yet to see any kind of official horse stable.

The horse race now officially over, it’s time to celebrate. A small group forms in the middle of the track and starts up one of the traditional dances. And on the other side of the track I learn that there’s an entire set of stands and booths advertising various products and services. More interesting are the jujus that congregate on one platform off to the side-a terrifying group of dancers clad in masks and noisemakers that are collectively some of the most impressive dancers I’ve ever seen. Many children fear these jujus, as is custom. My neighbors are caught between their desire to witness the dancing and their fear about getting too close. After a few minutes I think we’ve all had enough. We head home, exhausted and satisfied. I don’t get many opportunities to witness traditional Cameroonian cultural shows, and this one more than made up for it.

In other news, I’m actively preparing for my parents’ impending visit to Cameroon! They arrive in a few days, and I’m beginning to wonder who is more excited: them or my neighbors and friends here. Family is exceedingly important here, and my family is often a source of concern. I’m looking forward to the opportunity to show Cameroon off to them, and finish the job I started last May, when my brother made the trip out. Here’s to wishing them a wonderful, rewarding, and memorable trip!

Campaigning for Compost

            Like most of my Peace Corps peers, I’m not old enough to have school-age children. Because of this, I had never attended a Parent-Teacher Association (PTA) meeting back in America. My hometown has an active PTA, and when I was in school it felt like they were always putting on a pasta dinner, starting a greenhouse, or meeting to discuss a proposed new school building. Naively, I assumed that this was the kind of organization that wouldn’t really transfer to Cameroon. Like many of my assumptions about Cameroon, this one proved entirely incorrect. All of the schools that I’ve known anything about have PTAs, at least in name. And like their American counterparts, these associations require parents to contribute financially each year. In a country where many people don’t have many liquid assets and are already required to pay fees at every school, these PTA fees often add an additional burden to an already-stressful time of year. But they also give parents a degree of influence over their children’s educations that they might not otherwise receive.

            A few weeks ago I first became involved with the primary school in my quarter through a local organization working towards improving waste management in our subdivision. The organization was in the process of distributing pamphlets on the subject, and one of the members had the idea that schools would be filled with a captive and easily influenced audience. Together we expanded upon the idea of pamphlet distribution and decided to introduce a few practical components. With the support of the headmistress we set upon creating a compost heap and encouraging waste separation. As it stands, Cameroon has no formal recycling program, although reusing bottles and such is quite common.

            Part of the waste management plan included installing permanent waste bins in each of the classrooms. As it stands, the only waste receptacle in any of the classrooms in an occasional cardboard bin that is intermittently discarded with the waste. All of the waste was going to a “burn pile” just a few yards behind the school, a common practice. The headmistress agrees that the classrooms needed real trash cans, but she isn’t in a position to allocate any money for them-that can only be done by the PTA. She then tells me when the next meeting is and recommends that I arrive an hour late, advice I always appreciate and am no longer surprised by.

            So just over an hour after the designated start time, I arrive at the school expecting to find a meeting just getting started and still awaiting most of the attendees. Imagine my surprise to instead find a packed set of classrooms filled with both parents and teachers that were already halfway through their agenda. I try not to attract too much attention to my late arrival (I’ve accepted by now that nearly everything I do attracts attention, deservedly or not) and just sheepishly take a seat. The women on either side of me both give me a small smile, which is reassuring upon finding myself at a PTA meeting where I am neither a parent nor a teacher.  Luckily, I arrive just before the “Requests/Projects” item closed, and after a quick introduction by the headmistress, I stand up to give my brief presentation.

            My public speaking teacher in high school prepared me for many potential speaking venues, but he somehow forgot to include “request for funding in a foreign country to a group of people that barely understand your English” in the syllabus. After over a year in one of the Anglophone regions of the country, I’ve learned to speak slowly and alter the order of words in order to better match the local speaking patterns (You are doing what this afternoon, anyone?) So I stand up and give it my best effort. I touch on the idea of beautifying the school, remind the crowd about the new municipal trashcans that was recently installed, and give my pitch. A few people nod along, but the main response is silence. Oh no, I think; they’re not interested. And then it begins: the laughter, echoing around the concrete-walled room. If this isn’t every public-speaking student’s worst nightmare, I honestly don’t know what is. I know the cause of the laughter; most of the audience simply didn’t understand most of what I just said. But that conscious knowledge doesn’t do much to assuage the gut feeling that my proposal, my presence, have just been solidly rejected.

            As my cheeks flush, I turn to the headmistress in the front of the room and silently motion for her to present again on my behalf. Generously she stands up and gives her own take on our plan, presenting the wastebaskets as a necessity for classroom hygiene and the mural as a step towards school beautification. She speaks in Pidgin English, a stepbrother of my Grammar English and a language that I’ve come to understand but not quite speak. Prior to the meeting I had been nervous that the PTA would approve of the project but simply lack the funds or be unwilling to disburse them for what could be perceived as an unnecessary expense. To my relief, it’s just the opposite. The proposal is met with wide approval, and is easily passed. Some parents look at me approvingly and offer small words of support as the meeting returns to order.

            I leave soon after the headmistress’ presentation; I don’t have much business at this (or any) PTA meeting beyond our small proposal.  But walking down the dusty hill back to my house, I’m aware of the distinct feeling of pride: pride over the PTA’s acceptance of the project, and also pride that my community values their children's educations and takes their PTA meetings more seriously than nearly any meeting I’ve observed in my time here thus far.