Everything Closes on Shabbat

I landed in Israel after dark on Friday night, meaning I had arrived at the beginning of Shabbat. Much of the country closes down on Shabbat, including public transportation and many stores. This wasn’t a problem for me-my friend Scott was at the airport waiting to pick me up. But it was certainly a reminder that I had arrived in a country even more religious than the one I had temporarily left behind.

            Scott and I headed over to his friend’s Shabbat dinner, where a group of his Frisbee friends were still gathered. My family celebrated Shabbat when I was growing up, but it has been years since it was a normal part of my week. We had arrived too late for any of the religious part (if it even took place) but were just in time for post-dinner chilling and some wine. No complaints here. Scott is a big Ultimate Frisbee player and he and his friends had just finished working at a camp for Arab and Israeli kids to come together to play Ultimate. As far as I understand it, Ultimate is a self-refereed sport, and the idea is that conflict resolution on the playing field has the potential to expand to larger reconciliation between the two groups.

            The next few days were spent exploring Israel’s major cities, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. Our first stop was the Jerusalem “shook” or market. The shook is an incredible hybrid of organized American stores and chaotic Cameroonian markets. All of the food is divided into small stores off a central pathway, and each store is distinct and organized. Shopkeepers are eager to draw potential customers towards their products, and don’t hesitate to use the outdoor space as additional display. We bought a kilogram of the best grapes I’ve eaten in the past two years, and I was happy as a clam. But the best was yet to come-we continued on and found a man selling cream cheese and smoked salmon. One of Scott’s friends had picked up a few dozen bagels on his way over, so we took our purchases and made a picnic breakfast in a nearby park. I could have left right after breakfast and the trip would have already been worth it.

            We spent that afternoon wandering around Jerusalem’s Old City. It was far too hot to be outside for too long; I was grateful to be making a return trip and thus free to pass on many of the “must-see” sights located in direct sunlight. We passed numerous tour groups struggling in the afternoon heat, including one decked out entirely in matching pagne (West African fabric, potentially the world’s least breathable material).

            Our search for a cooler spot took us to the stone church where Jesus allegedly ascended to heaven. My Birthright trip had (somehow) missed this particular site during my last visit, so this was a new landmark for me. And it was an incredible site to see-apparently multiple sects of Christianity had tried to claim the church as their own, but finally agreed to share it and each decorate their own small sections according to their own traditions. Some rooms are ornate and gilded, while others are more reserved and “traditional”. In a city (and country) typically thought of as home to Jews and Muslims, it was an important reminder of how many groups can claim the land for religious reasons.

The frisbee was the only thing we never left behind.

            Having gotten a short-term fill Jerusalem’s history, we headed to Tel Aviv the following day to appreciate the attractions of a more modern city. Between an afternoon on the Mediterranean beach, happy hour with mango margaritas, Japanese food on a outdoor patio, and a parking payment system so complicated you need a smartphone to navigate it, I was thoroughly reminded how wonderful life in a cosmopolitan city can be. 

            One of my goals for my time in Israel was to refresh my long-dormant SCUBA diving skills and get back underwater. Scott and I had both gotten certified in college, but he hadn’t been diving since our certification dives in that cold Minnesotan lake. He was game to strap on a tank again, so we signed up for a refresher dive course off the beach in Tel Aviv. When they learned how long it had been since we had been diving (nearly three years for me, five for Scott) and where we had gotten certified, the team at the dive shop had a hard time taking us seriously. But we both remembered our skills and were soon out in the water, where we saw a few schools of fish and even a seahorse!

            My cousin Amir and his family coincidentally live in a kibbutz just across the highway from  Scott and I spent an evening having a picnic with Amir and his family at the kibbutz’s community pool, and Scott and Amir discussed hosting a cross-community children’s event centered on Frisbee. More than just more than just a highway divides the two towns; they have history, language, and culture to overcome. But it sounds like some community integration programs have already begun, and there is definitely the potential for a bright future ahead.

the town where Scott lives. The two towns are no more that 15 minutes away from each other, but have wildly different feels to them. Amir’s kibbutz is home to Hebrew-speaking Jews and almost has the feel of a socialist commune; whereas the main language in Scott’s town is Arabic and the plethora of speed bumps do little to slow down the young people racing their cars through the streets.

            We spent the last part of the week taking a mini-road trip up to the northern part of the country. To break up the three-hour drive (Israel is so small!), we decided to stop in the city of Haifa to visit the Baha’i Gardens, of which I had never previously heard. But as soon as we entered (after passing the modesty dress code check) I was blown away. The gardens are set on the world headquarters of the Baha'i faith and include a 19-level terraced garden and shrine to the Bab, a Baha'i prophet. We inadvertently arrived just in time for the daily English-language tour and learned about the history of the Baha'i faith while enjoying the incredible view. It was fascinating, beautiful, and stiflingly hot. We also learned that although Israel is the homeland for the Baha'i faith (or perhaps because it is), its adherents are not allowed to make Israel their personal home.

The Baha'i faith values symmetry as part of beauty. I was
blown away!

            During my last two nights I had two very distinct reunions-first on my family’s kibbutz for Shabbat, then in Jerusalem with a couple of Cameroon RPCVs. On Shabbat we said the traditional prayers, ate my first challah (Jewish braided bread) in two years, and enjoyed time with some far-away family. But the next night was special in an entirely different way, when we met up with two Returned Volunteers currently living in Cameroon. I had overlapped with one of them, but the other was a Frisbee friend of Scott’s that I had never met-just another example of what a small world we live in. Just as we were about to order our pizzas, power went out in the entire neighborhood. The two of them swore that this was a rare occurrence in Jerusalem, but we all had a good laugh about it. We might have left Cameroon, but it was enough of a reminder that we’re never really in control. 

Mud and iPods Don't Mix

A few months ago I reached a point of incredible frustration with Cameroon. I can’t point my finger on exactly what caused it, but it was just a culmination of all of the various stressors that come with life here. I didn’t want to hear “white man” called at me when I walked down the street, I didn’t have the energy to bargain for fair prices in the market, and I certainly had no patience for dealing with my ridiculously high electricity bill (and the various neighbor skirmishes that accompanied it). At this point I was probably about four months from the end of my service; just long enough to feel distant but close enough that “early-terminating” my service seemed unnecessary. So I booked a vacation.

            One of my friends from college has been living in Israel for the past year, and I decided that visiting him would be the perfect break from the frustrations of life in Cameroon. And as wonderful as my Peace Corps friends are, there’s something nice about spending time with someone who has known you for longer than two years and outside the unique context of PC service.

            But before I can go to Israel, I have to get to the airport. And before I can get to the airport, I have to make my way to Douala, with a stopover in Yaoundé to pick up my passport and verify that I am officially cleared to leave the country. Back in America, I never lived further than an hour away from the nearest airport. Sometimes my flights back to college were even out of the local county airport, a brief 15-minute trip from my house. But here, the closest (operational) airport is a seven-hour bus ride from Bamenda, an entire day’s journey.

            I know I’ve written about travel misadventures in the past, but rarely have my trips started out on such shaky ground. This bus is barely five minutes out of the station before we have a breakdown. And so there we sit, just on the outskirts of Bamenda, while they first try to fix our bus and then admit defeat and send a new bus. In the meantime I get out of the bus for a second, only to slip into a medium-sized puddle of mud. My clothing is covered with rapidly drying mud, all of my fellow passengers are staring, and the bus hasn’t even left Bamenda yet. My desire to get out of the country is increasing by the second.

            But like always, we eventually make it down to Yaoundé. I arrive at the Peace Corps transit house in a bit of a daze, only to learn that our quarter of the city is going to be essentially blocked off the next day because the Nigerian president is in town for a meeting with President Paul Biya. So the next day I find myself walking to the nearest police station to get the various stamps and forms necessary to renew my entry/exit visa, due to the absence of taxis on our normally bustling road.

            My patience for Cameroonian bus travel temporarily at its limit, I decide to take the train to Douala. All of my prior Cameroonian train experiences have been quite pleasant, so I’m optimistic about what the next few hours will bring. And I’m not disappointed; the air aboard the car is pleasant and calm and most of the passengers have already taken their seats. In many ways I feel like I’ve stepped onto a Metro-North train bound for Manhattan-there is none of the discomfort or general ridiculousness that I’ve come to associate with Cameroonian travel. The kids across the aisle from me are even each playing on their own tablets, so I’m happy to pull out my iPod and block out the rest of the world.

            In my mind I’ve all but left Cameroon when I look up to see a dispute breaking out just next to me. Apparently the train station accidentally sold two tickets for the same seat, and the man who came to find his seat already taken is not pleased at all. He is dressed in traditional Muslim apparel, and is speaking a language that isn’t French or English, most likely Fulfulde, a local dialect spoken by Muslim groups. What language he is speaking doesn’t really matter to the woman currently occupying the disputed seat; she can’t understand him and just sees an angry older man screaming at her. The situation escalates when he strikes out at her; unfortunately I am sitting between the two of them and immediately lose whatever patience I had previously had. Luckily the train officials have gotten word of the problem and rush to help the man find a different seat after his friends pull him away. 

            Frustrating as the entire situation is, the interesting part comes next, when a younger companion of the man returns to apologize to my neighbor and I. He offers a few explanations for the man’s behavior, concluding with his lack of education. Cameroon is very much still a developing country, but I rarely find myself in situations that so visibly capture the range of progress that it is currently making. Here we are, immersed in our various personal entertainment systems and reading American tabloids, (I wasn’t even the one that brought them!) when an older man who wasn’t lucky enough to receive any kind of secondary education confronts us over an administrative error. 

A post-work parent/child lesson in my neighborhood-a rare sight worth admiring! 

Up to the Adamawa!

A few weeks ago my friends and I decided to take one final big trip around Cameroon. It is a bit too early for our last hurrah, but we want to see as much of the country (and our friends) as we can before we enter into our last three months in country, when travel is forbidden. So we decide to head to the Adamawa Region, the only part of the Grand North that we are still allowed to visit.

Although the Adamawa Region is adjacent to the Northwest Region, where I live, the best way to get there requires going back through Yaoundé (a seven-hour bus ride) and then taking an overnight train up to the regional capital of N’Gaoundere. I decide to break up the trip to Yaoundé by stopping in the small city of Bangangte, where my friend Ben lives, to spend some time with him before he leaves the country. As my friend Anna has described, Ben is a unique individual, and I’m going to miss him greatly. On this particular visit, one of our main activities is finding and carrying water back to his third-floor apartment. Most people would have seen this as a chore, but to Ben it is simply a creative way to get some exercise, and have some fun with his neighbors while we’re at it. We borrow a wheelbarrow from some amused children (or pikin, as the Anglophones call ‘em), ask a neighbor to let us use his tap, and begin the climb back up to Ben’s house. Along the way we entertain some of his Anglophone neighbors (those white men di carry wataa!!) make some friends at the bakery that offer us some gateau (cake), and endure the harsh stares and heckles from his evil landlady that hangs out just outside his door. Never a dull moment.

The next day I continue my journey to Yaoundé, stopping a few times to snag some pineapple and other snacks out the bus window. This level of convenience is something that I expect to miss greatly about Cameroon; I can’t remember ever being sold fresh fruit from the convenience of my seat back home. But everything else about those long hot bus rides? Those I think I’ll be happy to leave behind.

The overnight train between Yaoundé and N’Gaoundere is the only pleasant form of public transportation that I’ve experienced in Cameroon thus far. They even offer a sleeping car, which is the only option I’ve ever chosen. It is wildly expensive (25,000 CFA compared with 10,000 CFA for a second-class ticket), but makes the trip pleasant, as opposed to something to be endured. Our four-person car already has four people when my friend and I arrive; somehow a woman has convinced a hapless train conductor that her two elementary school-aged children are both less than four years old. If they’re willing to squeeze into their two beds I guess it’s fine by me!

We arrive in N’Gaoundere before I even wake up and exit the train to a slightly different world than the one we left last night. Although the station itself is bustling, the general attitude feels less rushed, less abrasive, and a bit calmer. Overall, the Grand North is much less developed than the rest of the country, but it also has a culture unlike that found down south. We hire a car to take us to Mbarang, my friends Hannah and Will’s village, and the entire transaction is completed without any screaming or fighting. It’s a bit disorienting.

As is typically the case in Cameroon, the drive is simply stunning.  We pass rolling green hills dotted with thatched-roof huts called “boukarous”. There are fewer banana trees than I’ve come to expect, and almost no small towns lining the road. We have arrived during the month of Ramadan, and our driver asks if he can stop the car to pray at the appropriate time. We agree, and he pulls into one of the towns and disappears into the mosque at the side of the road. So do many other men; we can see their shoes lined up just outside the doors.

            To reach my friends’ village we have to leave our car at the main road and continue by motorcycle. This section of the trip is close to an hour, but is equally beautiful. And experiencing it by bike is less comfortable but much more visually gripping. We pull up to the village and see Will walking down the main road. The driver continues along to Hannah’s house; it’s a small village and everyone knows where it is.

            Our time in Mbarang is tranquil and enlightening. The village is visibly split into Christian and Muslim quarters, and the development level of the different sides is informed by the occupations of its residents. Most of the local wealthy cattle herders are Muslim, whereas the poorer farmers tend to be Christian. Life in Mbarang slows down during Ramadan, but activity increases during the late afternoon in preparation for breaking the fast. The section of the main street near the market is taken up by people selling (primarily fried) foods, and we’re more than willing to give them all a try. A crowd favorite is “kosai”, which are small fried white bean patties. They were described to us as “pseudo chicken nuggets”, and then (upon further reflection) “pseudo vegetarian chicken nugget imitations”. Well, Chick’n Nuggets they are not, but they’re not bad at all. And at 10 CFA a pop (~$0.02) you can’t go too far wrong.

            Our time in Mbarang is over far too quickly, and it’s time to head back to N’Gaoundere. Although I live in another big regional capital, life in N’Gaoundere feels in many ways as new as it did in Mbarang. The taxis that I depend on in Bamenda are nowhere to be found, and public transport is limited to motorbikes. Instead of Pidgin English being shouted in the streets, a mix of French and Fulfulde are used at a much more manageable volume. We make a pilgrimage to the popular “kalichi” store that sells what appears to be a local version of beef jerky. Available in both pimente (spicy) and non-pimente versions!

            One day we take a car out to Tello Falls, a beautiful local waterfall. The drive is as beautiful as I’ve come to expect, and equally eventful. We only fishtail a few times as we slog our way through the mud, and accidentally find ourselves in the village of a fellow Volunteer. Her village is so remote that when we call to tell her that we’re nearby, she doesn’t even believe us. But it’s always great to see the villages and homes of our friends and get a glimpse into the little worlds that we build around ourselves.

            On the way back to Bamenda I stop for a few nights in Yaoundé. It’s that time of year again; a group of Volunteers is “gonging out” and heading back home, their services complete. These celebrations tend to be a bit bittersweet, as we want to celebrate the accomplishments of our friends but also accept that they’re going to be a bit harder to contact in the near future. This particular group arrived just before mine did; in many ways it feels like we’re in this together. We’ve had the longest to get to know them and went through the process of discovering Cameroon together. But as sad as I am to see them go, their departure really drives home the reality that we’re up next. Three months from now, we'll be the ones dressed in ridiculous traditional outfits and saying our final good-byes to Cameroon. I'll believe it when the time comes. 

                                                                                           

Electricity Woes and Cultural Wonderings

Electricity just returned to my house after a 48-hour absence, the longest it has ever been out.  Although my brief span without power wasn’t really more than an inconvenience, the situation that led to its shut-off nearly drove me to my breaking point. And I think it speaks to a world of larger issues that plague Cameroon and (maybe even) points to why development work in Cameroon can be so frustrating.

            To give some quick background, I should explain that my apartment is wired for electricity with the local power company. And my electricity is always quite consistent; living near so many local bureaucrats all but guarantees that. As a (bitter) Volunteer living in a smaller town told me when I moved in, “the lights never go out in Upstation”. This comes as a harsh contrast to much of the country, where power outages are frequent and can last as long as months. Some smaller villages are still waiting to be connected to the grid and exist in a world of candles and small solar panels.

            The one qualm that I had with my connection to the grid was that I share a bill and meter with one of my neighbors. Each month one of us would receive the bill, show it to the other, and then we would divide it into our rough shares. He always took care of actually paying the bill; the world of Cameroonian utility companies is one that I’m happy to avoid whenever possible. But the bills stopped coming a few months ago, and I just assumed that my neighbor was taking care of them. He’s a busy man and works as a regional distributor for popular products such as Pringles and Huggies diapers. We have a good relationship, and I assumed he would ask me for the money at some point in the future.

            So imagine my surprise when I came home after a short trip to find that my power had been switched off. A short conversation with another set of neighbors told me that the utility company had come around in my absence to switch it off. Apparently the bill hadn’t been paid for three months. And to make matters worse, we had some how racked up a total bill of nearly 150,000 CFA (nearly $300). Given that my monthly electricity bill typically hovers around $10, I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

            My bill-sharing neighbor was nowhere to be found, and a quick call told us that he was in the capital city of Yaoundé, a 7-hour trip (on a good day). He told me to sit tight, and that he would be back in less than a week. Probably. I was told that I could call a technician from the electric company that would be happy to come switch my power back on for a 5,000CFA bribe. But I decided that probably wasn’t the right path to go down (and he didn’t come even when we called).

            At this point I was beginning to get a little hysterical. It wasn’t the prospect of a night or two without power that freaked me out, but that this was a problem that might not be able to resolve for the rest of my service. I know that many of my friends have lived nearly two years without any kind of real electricity, but my resiliency stores are wearing thin. I wasn’t in the mood to go out and buy a small solar light. And I certainly wasn’t in the mood to live in the only house in the neighborhood without working lights.

            Enter the Peace Corps community to save the day. My friends were full of suggestions about how to proceed, and one recommended that I connect my house to a neighbor’s existing connection. Her postmate had done something similar, but unfortunately in his case all of his neighbors were less than honest. In the end he had to move out of house because he ran out of neighbors to buy electricity from. He also couldn’t get behind the idea of living without lights in a neighborhood full of electricity.

            Bouba, the Bamenda Peace Corps logistician, was the true hero and got my landlady (who lives next door) to allow me to connect to her house’s power. I had trouble believing that this would be a realistic solution, but that’s exactly what happened. An electrician simply ran a cable directly between our houses, and just like that, the darkness lifted. Now the only remaining issue is paying my landlady each month for the power that I use. And dealing with the outstanding power bill…but I’m hoping to put that off for a little bit.

            As happy as I am to have power back, I know that I’m playing a risky game. Adding the complication of power consumption to the relationship that I currently maintain with my landlady certainly has the potential for disaster. My friend Sarah’s take on the issue is that she hoped that this situation doesn’t “get bad in the remaining time” I’ll live here, which had been my exact feeling.

            This brings me to my original point, which is that life in Cameroon often feels like a race against the clock. Part of that is certainly the limited schedule on which Volunteers operate; we know going in that we’ll only be here for about two years. But the way of life here is also much more imminent than anything I remember back home. Things both break and are fixed with alarming regularity and the focus seems to be on the current status, rather than long-term prospects. Maybe this is a result of limited resources and an economy of action, but I’m not convinced. It seems to stem from an entirely different mindset, one that chooses immediacy over endurance. It’s the reason that many items are sold in single-use quantities, even if it means they cost more over time. Life over here often feels like the antithesis of our Costco big-box obsession, and is focused on having enough to make it through the day.

            Obviously, I’m oversimplifying. In a cultural context the concern for immediate problems over long-term solutions makes quite a bit of sense. But as an outsider, it can be incredibly frustrating. I can’t wait to get into a car and not assess the extent to which it is on the border of collapse. Or deal with a technician that is prepared to fix something the right way, and not the cheap way.

             As for the larger development issues, I can’t help but wonder if this cultural difference plays some role in the general dissatisfaction. What if the Western focus on sustainability is permanently up against the Cameroonian emphasis on immediate solutions? That’s a larger topic to discuss, but is one that I can’t help but think about as my immediate role in the world of international development draws to a close.