Adventures in Camfranglais

One of the first pieces of information about I learned about Cameroon was that it is a bilingual country, with both French and English as its official languages. That was great news to me, as I had studied both languages and considered myself to be passable in one and fluent in the other. Only once I arrived here did I realize the extent to which this official bilingual status is wildly misleading.

            In a formal sense Cameroon does have two main languages. And like in Canada (the only other English/French country) the divide between linguistic groups is divided geographically and is a lingering effect of colonization. The Anglophone portion of Cameroon (where I live) is adjacent to English-speaking Nigeria, but elected to join Cameroon when the two countries were gaining independence.  Eight out of Cameroon’s ten regions are officially Francophone, and nearly all government officials speak French, regardless of their current post. There are bilingual high schools, (particularly in the Anglophone regions) but students must commit to a single language for all their instruction, effectively creating two separate schools within a single campus. This creates an odd mirror to the official country dynamic.

            A surprisingly small number of Cameroonians are fluent in both French and English, even within the Anglophone minority. But Cameroonians tend to be extremely multilingual, and nearly everyone here learns their local dialect before being exposed to English or French for the first time in school. The resulting effect is that casual conversations among peers are frequently carried out in a language other than the official regional language. And I can’t really speak for the Francophone regions, but here in Anglophone territory the lingua franca is Pidgin English, as I’ve mentioned before. People here understand my “Grammar English”, but not any better than their Francophone counterparts understanding my halting French.

            My city is only a 45-minute drive from the border with the closest Francophone region (the West Region), but it isn’t a trip I make often. The next big city (Bafoussam) is over an hour past that border, and the road for much of the trip is horrendous. It’s all paved, but only barely, and the overstuffed buses that go between the two cities are far from pleasant. A common rumor is that the roads are kept poor in an attempt to keep the Anglophone section of the country disconnected from the rest of the country. I can’t speak to the validity of that particular one, but it feels awfully convenient if it is true. Cameroon’s linguistic identity is fractured at best, and the terrible physical connector between the two regions feels awfully symbolic.

            One of the upsides of traveling to the West Region is that the tickets are quite cheap. A one-way seat on a “coaster” 20 seater runs a mere 1300 CFA, (just over $2) a reasonable price for the length of the trip. I try not to think about how much less time the trip would take if the roads were up to standards. The buses are run through independent companies, called “agences” by Francophones and Peace Corps Volunteers. These agences are efficient mini-machines themselves, always a blur of passengers, motor boys, and traveling salesmen. The popularity of the Bamenda/Bafoussam route means that the buses fill and leave quite frequently. Because of this, the average wait time at one of these agences tends to be rather low. So it wasn’t until recently that I realized that these places are the best example of pure English/French bilingualism that I’ve found so far in Cameroon. All professionals (all agence employees and most informal salesmen) need to speak both languages to be able to attend to the diverse set of customers. Newspapers are sold in both English and French, which is rarely seen elsewhere. I can’t even remember finding any English publications in the aisles of upscale grocery stores in the national capital of Yaoundé. Even the passengers waiting for buses make an effort to translate their needs and wants to passengers with other language preferences.

  

General madness at Amour Mezam-pretty standard.

          To call Cameroon a bilingual country is in many ways selling the linguistic identity of the country short. There are hundreds of local languages present in Cameroon, and yet the official languages only refer to the effects of colonialism. The presence of these (relatively new) languages has done much in terms of national cohesion and logistical practicality. But even the ability to speak both French and English will never be enough to really enter into any Cameroonian society.   

On an entirely unrelated note, my half-birthday passed recently. Like everyone over the age of nine and a half (my freshman year roommate in college notwithstanding), I was more than prepared to let the occasion go unmarked. Birthdays themselves are non-events here, but I’ve been encouraging some of my neighbors that I’ve become close with that they’re worth celebrating. I’ve made more than a few birthday cakes over the past year and a half, but I can’t keep up with the constant stream of birthday announcements (and thinly veiled demands for cake). One of the kids in a family that I’ve become quite close to celebrated his first birthday at the beginning of the month, and his brother turned three a few weeks later. So when the mom, a good friend of mine, asked about my birthday, she was disappointed to learn that it had passed in December. She thought about it for a moment and then decided that the only solution would be to celebrate my half birthday in June.

            Her older children have been baking cakes with me for a while now and they were quite excited about the prospect of baking on one their own. They weren’t entirely prepared though, and came over once to ask to borrow some flour, eggs, baking powder, and my cookbook. I laughed and handed them over, only to hear them knocking a few minutes later. This time they needed some cocoa powder and a cake pan. Again I agreed. The third time they came over to tell me that the cake was finished! But could they have a candle to put on it?

            We took the candle and went over to their house, where the cake was fresh out of the Dutch oven. Their mom cut the cake in half, broke the candle in half, and put the top part into the half-cake. They then started to sing a version of the Happy Birthday song, but I cut them off halfway. We shared my half of the cake- but I’m sure that they put the other half to good use.

Friends and Journeys and Mangoes

As I’m sure I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I’m incredibly grateful for the wonderful cast of characters I’ve met since arriving in Cameroon. A few of them have become what I hope will be lifelong friends, and spending time with them always boosts my spirits. This past week was a particularly wonderful one, filled with travel and visitors and some rejuvenating friendship time.

            One of the many things I’ve learned over the past year and a half is that Cameroon isn’t exactly bursting with “things to do”. I recently had a visitor that had recently finished her Peace Corps service in Thailand, and she told me that not once in her service did another PCV come visit her site. This isn’t to say that she became a temporary hermit, but just that Thailand has so many interesting places to visit that it felt silly to spend precious travel time sitting in some random village. Instead, her and her friends would meet up at any of the incredible places that fill the Lonely Planet Thailand book. Just for comparison’s sake, there is no Lonely Planet Cameroon. Cameroon has many positive attributes- it is beautiful, diverse, and extremely affordable. But it is a far cry from being high on the list of tourist destinations, and for good reason. There just aren’t that many “things to do”, and where there are, they’re not that easily accessible.

            But no matter. We didn’t join the Peace Corps for a two-year tourist stint. But the lack of activities means that when PCVs get together, it’s all about the people. So when I hear that two of my best friends are taking something of a Cameroon road trip (always a bold choice), I can’t wait for them to get to my town. I put my projects on pause and commit a few solid days to friendship time.  

            The first step on their Northwest tour is my post in Bamenda. Everyone in my stage has been to Bamenda at least once; it was the site for our check-in training after three months at post. But that was over a year ago, as hard as it may be to believe. My friend Hannah, one half of the traveling duo, lives way up in the Adamawa and hadn’t been back since. One of my many theories about Bamenda is that while it is an excellent place to live, it (like much of Cameroon) can be an uninspired place to visit. So I decide to play to its strengths and take my friends to the market. It turns out that among PCVs, lasagna is always a crowd pleaser.

            The next morning we hit Mendakwen’s (the name of my village) milk bar, which is a rather unique find. Like I’ve said before, dairy is still catching on around here. After a round of milk all around we head for the car park to catch a ride to Ndop, a nearby town where my friend Clare lives.

            This car trip, while only an hour long, is the reason that I decided to write this blog post. Somehow it seemed to perfectly encapsulate the spirit that is Peace Corps Cameroon (at least to me). We arrive at the park and are immediately surrounded by a pack of enthusiastic young men yelling potential destinations. These men are known as loaders and are paid a small fee by the drivers for each passenger they find. Because they are often in competition with each other, they tend to be eager to please potential passengers and accommodate special requests. Within reason, of course.

            There are four of us traveling, so we decide to take our chances on getting a small car over the dreaded 20-person van. We’re the first four in the car, and these small cars typically won’t leave without a full load of seven passengers. Yes, that’s seven passengers plus the driver. At this point Hannah has announced that she feels quite ill, and is curled up in front of our future car. The trip is off to a great start.

            I figure that we have plenty of time to wait and go off in search of sustenance. Just down the road is a woman selling plates of various Cameroonian dishes; I select a combination of white beans and rice. My favorite. Feeling rather proud of myself, I ask for an extra fork and head back to meet my friends, knowing that at least a few of them are hungry as well.

            But as soon as I reach the car, I am informed that the remaining passengers have been found and the car is ready to leave. Hungry as I am, I try to increase my eating speed. But for once the boys of the car park seem to be on my team and laugh at my haste. “Take your time”, they tell me, “the trip will wait”. In the hyper-frantic car park this is a small blessing, and I try to enjoy it. Unfortunately, I’ve realized that my meal (a bargain at 200 CFA/$0.35) is practically drenched in palm oil, the Cameroonian culinary staple. Usually I can stomach it, but today it has turned my innocent plate of white beans into something that reminds me of gasoline. Or maybe that’s just the scenery-the car park doubles as a gas station.

            Either way I decide to take a pass on the rest of my meal and carry it into the car with me as we load up. I’m squeezed into the front passenger seat with Hannah, and the driver offers Clare the dubious honor of “petit chauffer”, meaning she gets to share his driver’s seat. Anna hops into the back with three new friends and off we go. Conveniently, the mama that I bought the beans from is stationed en route, and when we honk as we pass her setup she comes right to the car to take the plate and hand me my change. Can’t get better service than that.

            Traffic in Bamenda town is pretty awful-picture American city traffic minus stoplights but plus giant potholes. And add some wild motorcycle drivers for good measure. It’s slow going and we all breathe a bit sigh of relief when we hit the city limits. To add some attempt at road safety the local police have set up a checkpoint where they are presumably monitoring the number of people in each car. At eight passengers in a small sedan, there’s no way we’re going to pass inspection.

            But no problem-our driver is a pro and has taken this route many times before. He simply turns to Clare and me and asks us to get out and walk for a little bit. But don’t worry, he assures us, he’ll pick us up on the other side.

            So this is exactly what we do. We walk past the police officers a few seconds after the car passes with two of our (also white-skinned) friends inside. If the police officers wouldn’t normally be suspicious, they certainly have reason to be now. The officers give us a friendly heckle as we stroll past, but make no move to detain either the car or us as we pass. It’s clear that everyone involved is abundantly aware of our fraud, but it’s all in good fun. And maybe 50 meters after the checkpoint the car stops as promised and waits for us to re-board. There’s nothing like a little mid-journey stroll.

            After this small interruption, the journey continues smoothly. Hannah is growing more and more ill, but that’s no real surprise-the curvy and bumpy roads leave all but the strongest stomach struggling to stay down. We stop at another checkpoint and are immediately faced with a myriad of smells and food products being thrust through the windows. No, we’ll take a pass on your fermented cassava stick for today. Thanks anyway.

            The only tempting option is the basket of mangoes that one woman pushes through the front passenger window. But just as I’m about to commit to purchasing them, one of our fellow passengers intervenes. Deborah is in the back next to Anna, and in the 45 minutes that we have been traveling has already invited her to her nursery school’s graduation. Deborah is from Ndop and speaks with authority on the subject of roadside mango markets. So off we go, until 10 minutes later when we reach the mango holy grail. No fewer than 15 women line the roadside, each one behind an overflowing bucket of mangoes. We don’t even have to leave the car; it’s all we can do to limit our selection to one saleswoman. After a brief team discussion, we decide to get 800 CFA (~$1.50) worth. It’s a massive amount. So many, in fact, that Anna runs out of room in her backpack and we have to distribute some to our fellow passengers. Adding to the excitement is the new knowledge that there are actually five different mango types. We inexperienced Americans can’t really tell the difference, but every single Cameroon is able to tell the difference with a quick glance. But no matter: they’re all delicious and it’s all we can do to hold off eating them until we arrive. 

            Luckily, the mango pit stop is quite close to our destination. We arrive and all nearly tumble out of the car in a combination of carsickness, discomfort, and relief. Taking a step away to catch my breath, I walk directly into the tailpipe of a poorly placed motorcycle. Ouch. That’s going to leave a mark.

            As frustrating as Cameroon can be (and particularly travel in Cameroon), there’s definitely a tempering effect that comes with traveling with understanding friends. Sometimes you just need someone to look over and chuckle with when that one obnoxious passenger seems to have decided to travel without her identification card or sit with his legs splayed out wide. And sometimes your friend just needs someone to tell the driver to pull over to accommodate her carsickness. As the Francophones say, “on est ensemble”.   

I didn't end up with any of the pictures
from our travels, but the recent rains have
really helped neighborhood morale!