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. 

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.