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.