Friday, February 12: 9:44 pm
Hanging out in my room in Yaounde. Tomorrow we head to Dschang, a much smaller city (or perhaps large village) about a 6-hour drive away (taking into account traffic, being stopped by police, possible other detours and roadblocks along the way...). I'm trying to pack my bag for this 2-week excursion, but unable to decide what to bring, I decided to procrastinate by writing.
Maman gave me three dresses today (in addition to the one that she gave me last week). I'm overwhelmed by dresses!
Simon cut my hair this afternoon, out on the veranda. He has an electric buzzer with different lengths on it, so now my hair is a level 3 (not too short). I think it's still a little longer than it was when I first arrived. I haven't decided whether to give him some money for cutting my hair...it seems like a good thing to do but, then again, he still owes me a bunch of money that I lent him last week.
I also owe Adda some money for fixing my skirt, which was a little bit torn. Just now I was sitting on her bed, watching as she made a vest with her sewing machine. I'm impressed by people who can make their own clothes.
I'm a little nervous for Dschang. I'm just starting to really feel comfortable in Yaounde, and now I'm going to have to start over somewhere else. I'm glad we'll be coming back here after two weeks. Also, it will be interesting to finally see what real Cameroonian village life is like, since that's the way most Cameroonians live (the country has about 19 million citizens, and only about 3 million live in the large cities of Yaounde and Douala. Ngaoundere and Maroua are also fairly large, though).
Last night, we had our second “student night” at SIT, where we stay at the school until 8 pm to do homework and spend some time with the other Americans. It's always fun...it's nice to have a break from the family. Unfortunately, the water has been cut off to Bastos for the last four days (water shortages are common in Yaounde; often, the tap will just stop working for a while), so we could only use oil when cooking (which wasn't terrible!). To do the dishes, we filled a bucket with water from a large garbage can that we keep at SIT for situations like this. Using a block of soap and the not-so-clear water, we were able to “wash” the dishes – but I'm not sure any of them are actually any cleaner now. I was so happy to come back to Etoa Meki, where the water is fully functional at the moment. I took two showers this afternoon to celebrate! The electricity is still a bit shaky here, though...it was cut off again this afternoon while I was trying to charge my computer.
Yesterday we went to a parade for February 11, the National Youth Holiday in Cameroon. All kids have vacation from school for the week and celebrate mainly by riding around, hanging out of cars, shouting and honking. During the parade, students from every school in Yaounde march (militantly, swinging arms and all). Marching along, singing songs about youth in their different school uniforms, they were pretty adorable. The parade went on a little long, though...we watched for two hours and hadn't gotten to the college students yet.
Off to finish packing. Next report will be from Dschang!
Monday, February 15: 8:30 pm
Hello from Dschang! (It's pronounced “chong” and is apparently a German name that comes from German colonizers misunderstanding the original name “Atsan.”) I'm sitting in my bedroom, next to a bunk bed (fortunately, the top bunk is empty during my stay here – I suppose all the children are sleeping upstairs). Ah, the children! There are 7 kids in the family, plus however many kids feel like hanging around (usually 9 or 10 in total). The ages range from about 3 to 20. The 3-year-old, Merveille, is pretty adorable and loves to play with me, though sometimes she smells a little poopy (that's when I push her off my lap). They also have a dog named Rex who hangs around outside and guards the house, but I've been instructed not to go near him, since he's “méchant” (mean). This makes me sad.
The stay in Dschang has been good thus far. We arrived on Saturday, after a surprisingly enjoyable 7-hour bus ride (it's nice to be with Americans for a long stretch of time...we sang all the songs we could think of and played word games. The usual car ride stuff). The first night in Dschang, we stayed at a lovely hotel called “Teclaire Palace.” A few friends and I went on a walk around the city, which is much smaller than Yaounde. Few people have cars here – but everyone seems to have a motorcycle. There are a million motorcycle-taxis, with men in yellow vests giving people rides around the city (unfortunately, taking a ride is strictly forbidden by SIT).
Saturday night we had our first group outing to a night club. It was quite an experience – but one that I don't care to repeat. The men here are very pushy and refuse to give up when they want to dance with you. If you give in and oblige them, they dance aggressively, putting their hands wherever they please. After about an hour and a half, a few of us decided we'd had enough and got a ride back to the hotel. The most fun part of the night was our pre-party at the hotel, which was much more relaxed.
My house here, besides having a million children, is nice. In some ways, it's nicer than my house in Yaounde – I have a bathroom connected to my bedroom that's just for me, and there's more space here than in our apartment in Etoa Meki. Even so, despite the existence of a sink, toilet, and shower in my bathroom, the water rarely works. I was able to fill my bucket outside and take my first bucket-shower (of many to come, I'm sure).
Today we had a lecture about the Bamileke, an ethnic group that lives around the Dschang area. What intrigued me during the whole presentation, which someone had mentioned to me once before, are the similarities between the history of the Bamileke and that of the Jews. Some Bamileke scholars, for example, assert that it was the Bamileke who built the pyramids. After settling in Cameroon, they adapted quickly to a cash economy despite their attachment to old traditions. Today, they are among the most commercially successful in Cameroon, in addition to being in control of most media outlets. Many Cameroonians from other ethnic groups are suspicious of the Bamileke and stereotypes of them as stingy and greedy abound. There is also evidence that the French committed acts of genocide against the Bamileke during colonization. Sound familiar? Apparently, a girl last semester thought about doing her independent study project on the similarities between the two groups, but ended up changing her mind. It would certainly be an interesting topic.
Tuesday, February 16: 9:16 pm
I'm exhausted! Lots of walking around today, then coming home to play with small children for a while. We played a form of Truth or Dare (“Action ou Verité”) combined with Spin the Bottle, except it was a bottle-opener instead of a bottle. The Dares mostly involved someone having to hug or kiss someone else (and everyone there was related, so it wasn't exactly the most exciting). Fortunately, I was only required to kiss the baby, whom I kissed on the head.
Cameroonians love television. Even in tiny houses made of mud bricks, there's always a TV, and it's always on. The kids in my house love the Disney Channel (we watched High School Musical and two episodes of Suite Life of Zack and Cody yesterday), but also Canal 2, the local Cameroonian channel. Unfortunately, the local channel mostly features terrible imported soap operas, such as “Veidhi,” an Indian soap that seems to consist mostly of dramatic extreme close-ups. Then there are the Latin American soaps dubbed into French, like “Tourbillons de Passions,” which the family, and particularly my host mom, loves. My host mom tried to explain the plot to me, but it was confusing...something about a woman's friend acting as a surrogate, then having the baby and disappearing in a plane crash, then reappearing years later to claim the baby. Or something like that. And there are lots of young women marrying old rich men for their money.
Tomorrow, we visit a “chefferie” - the home of a traditional chief in a nearby village. Apparently, the chief has, in the past, offered marriage to some of the female students, inviting one to become his 25th wife. We're supposed to take this as a joke and say we're very sorry but we need to return to the US.
French class was hilarious today...the professor here is a middle-aged man who giggles a lot, particularly when telling us stories about previous students farting in class. He also laughed a lot when another girl in the class explained the concept of boycotting; she was saying that some Americans don't eat bananas because of the unjust labor practices of banana companies, and he laughed, saying, “And you think that will change the labor practices?!” I suppose it's an American thing – thinking we can change the world with our individual actions.
Took another bucket shower this evening. My only real issue is that the water is very cold. I think some people heat it on the stove before washing.
Today for breakfast I had the usual – hot milk and bread with margarine – but dinner was a little odd: two bananas. My host mom said she's had 5 vegetarian students before, so it's no problem (she's had 20 students in total), but she also doesn't seem too interested in actually cooking non-meat food. In Yaounde, my host sister would always cook a sauce and leave some aside before adding fish. Here, though, my host mom cooks the fish or meat right into the sauce. This leaves me with whatever the starch is, usually plantains or bananas. I'm not excited for nights when we have cassava or corn couscous...that stuff is terrible without a sauce. I might ask her if I can help cook at some point and try to leave some sauce aside. (I tried to eat some sauce taken from the fish pot, without eating the fish itself, but it tasted so fishy that I couldn't bring myself to do it.) Unfortunately, she seems to cook earlier in the day while I'm at school. We'll see what happens...
Wednesday, February 17: 8:46 pm
Both the electricity and the water to the house are cut tonight. We sat in the living room, in the dark, and sang for a while – my host sister, Leticia, is about 14 and has a lovely voice. She started with Christian songs in French, which my host mom, host brothers, and little 4-year-old host sister joined in on. It was an incredible moment.
After a bit, though, the Christian songs somehow transitioned into Lady Gaga...quite the interesting interpretation of “Bad Romance.” Eventually, that turned into Christmas carols in English.
Today was a cool day – we visited a chefferie, the palace of a traditional Bamileke chief. The chief, wearing corduroy pants and a fleece (not the traditional outfit), sat in his bamboo throne and answered questions. He then showed us around the grounds, a mix of traditional symbols and modern additions (satellite dishes on bamboo roofs, televisions in most rooms). Like all chiefs, he has many wives, but wouldn't tell us how many (apparently, it's offensive to ask the question). My guess is 25 or so. Some of his children were running around near us, and I asked a little boy if he liked living here. He said it's very good and he likes playing with his siblings. When I asked him how many brothers and sisters he had, he shrugged and said, “Beaucoup!” (“A lot!”)
On the way back to Dschang in our little minibus, the driver pulled over to buy a dead partridge from a boy on the side of the road. The boy ran up and handed him the unplucked bird by the feet. For the rest of the ride, the bird sat on the seat next to him.
The game of “Spin the Bottle/Truth or Dare” continued this evening. Most of the dares this time involved crouching down and apologizing to people. When it was my turn to give a dare, the only thing I could think of was, “Act like a dog!” or “Act like a giraffe!” As far as Truths go, the main one seemed to be, “Say something you stole,” with “What's your favorite food?” a near second.
Oh, and I finally met the dog, Rex, today – turns out he's not mean at all, the kids are just scared of him because he follows them around and wants to play. He seems very sweet and loves being pet; sadly, he's very skinny and has serious ear mite issues. Oddly, he wouldn't eat the bit of bread that I tried to give him this morning – my host mom says he only likes meat. Weird.
Saturday, February 20: 7:19 pm
My first bout of sickness has arrived. Yesterday afternoon, while attempting to do some research at a microfinance institution, I suddenly felt incredibly nauseous and had to go outside (the research wasn't really going anywhere, anyway). Feeling too sick to walk all the way home (it would have been at least 45 minutes), I broke the SIT rules and took a motorcycle-taxi back (it was really fun). If there had been regular taxis, I would have taken one, but unfortunately, there are only moto-taxis here.
When I got home, I decided to just sleep all afternoon. When I woke up, I had a fever of 101.9 and my whole body hurt – sore throat, achy muscles, and extreme pain emanating from a cut on my thumb. I took some Advil and went back to sleep. The night was pretty rough – whenever I was awake, I fantasized about floating in a pool of cool water. Everything was burning. I struggled to open the mosquito net to take more pills and check my temperature, which had risen to 102.1. I called an SIT staffperson, who said we would go to the hospital in the morning.
Fortunately, when I woke up today, I felt much better – the fever had disappeared and my muscles weren't sore (sadly, my throat was still in a lot of pain). The SIT staffperson, Valerie, came by and I said that since I was feeling better, I preferred not to go to the hospital. It's my impression that hospital visits here are generally a waste of time and money, unless you have a serious concern. I decided that if the fever returns tonight, it's a sign that I have malaria and need to see a doctor.
As of now, my temperature has been hovering around 99 degrees, so I think I'm okay. Advil, sleep, playing with 4-year-old sister, more sleep, more Advil.
Monday, February 22: 9:55 pm
Two things that struck me this evening:
1)My host brother, Blondel, came to me asking for help with some homework (he's in 12th grade). He had to interpret a graph from a textbook regarding weather during various seasons. However, his problem was that he didn't know when each season began or ended. In Cameroon, he explained, there's only the rainy season and the dry season – no winter, spring, summer or fall. Cultural problems with importing textbooks from France? I'm sure it's not the only one.
2)There was a commercial on TV tonight. A family sat outside, making some hot chocolate. Suddenly, a man (presumably the father?) came stumbling out of the doorway, wearing no shirt and a talisman around his neck. Based on his facial expressions and sounds, he was evidently possessed by the Devil/some sort of evil spirit (sorcery is feared by most Cameroonians with whom I've spoken). All of the kids ran away and hid in the bushes. But as soon as the possessed man drank the hot chocolate, he woke up and was suddenly wearing a black suit with a white tie and acting jovial. The kids ran back, smiling. The message: this hot chocolate acts as an exorcism aid?
Feeling much better today – fever gone, throat only mildly sore. Conducted several interviews, about ethnicity and microfinancing. A productive day!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Gullible Mother Goose
Tuesday, February 9: 8:33 pm
I just met Adda's boyfriend, Omar... the adjective that comes to mind is “slick.” According to Adda, he has lots of girlfriends. He seems friendly enough. We had to have our meeting quietly on the balcony so that Maman wouldn't hear. Adda explained that she doesn't like her kids having boyfriends or girlfriends because she doesn't want them to steal her kids away and leave her alone. For this reason, she hates all of her daughters-in-law.
My sister on our balcony
A couple things I wanted to write about. First, a story from Sunday night. The landlord of our building hired, some time ago, a guard to sit out front. Last weekend, he fired the guard; according to Maman and Adda, it's because the landlord is very particular and never satisfied with things as they are. Over lunch with Maman, he told her that she needed to find a new guard, to which Maman replied that she liked the old one and wanted him to come back. After some convincing, he agreed. Thus Adda, Simon and I were enlisted to find him. We believed he lived next door, in one of the shacks, so we stopped by Sunday afternoon. A few men were playing cards on the ground. When we asked if our former guard was around, they said they didn't know him. Later that night, Simon went over and told them that we wanted him to come back and guard the house, and they gave him the same response. Then some little boys ran over and told us that he wasn't a guard anymore – he had changed his job. Eventually, a woman came over (the mother of the boys) and said that they knew him, but that he was very angry at the landlord for mistreating him and did not want us to find him. Adda explained that all the children in the neighborhood said that they didn't know him; they both laughed. Apparently the whole quarter knew of the landlord's abuses.
Two boys from the neighborhood. The one on the right insisted that the guard had changed professions
Her other son, a boy of about 8 or 9 wearing tight flared pants and a Cameroonian large-collared shirt, said he had seen the man around and would go find him. He ran off up the hill. About ten minutes later, he returned saying he couldn't find him; we asked another man, who said he was in that direction, and the boy ran off again. When he returned, he said the guard was sitting in a bar on the street and he could lead us there. We followed him through the neighborhood, between shacks and up a narrow, rocky path to the main street, then up the street to a bar, where he pointed at the man sitting outside with his friends. Adda went over to speak with him, shaking his hand and saying that Maman wanted him to return and continuing working for us. He seemed hesitant. Finally, he agreed to come speak with Maman and followed along behind us as we walked back to the house (this time, along the main road). Adda thanked the boy for helping us and he ran off, satisfied to be successful at his mission.
Upstairs in the apartment, Adda and I listened while Maman heard the guard's grievances. Whenever the guard had swept the stairs, the landlord said, “You didn't do this well enough! Do it again!” When the guard tried to go to Mass one Sunday, the landlord chased him and asked why he wasn't working. He even threatened to take away his national identity card. At some point, he threatened to fire all of the guards in the area. I didn't catch all of what the man said, but it sounded like the landlord was a real asshole.
Maman asked the man point-blank if he wanted to come back and work here. He didn't respond. She asked again, saying it was a simple question. Again he described the landlord's harassment. Maman stopped him, saying, “The landlord, he's my son.” (He's not really her son.) “I'll talk to him about all of these things, we'll work it out.” She asked the man how old he was and he hesitated before saying he was 48 years old. “So you're my son, too,” she said (Maman is 62). “You're both my sons, we can all get along.” After much further persuasion, he agreed to come back and guard the house. Maman is very convincing.
Later Adda told me how this man was from the North, and in the North people don't know their ages. The man could have been anywhere from 40 or 55 (he looked younger to me, but I'm bad at guessing ages). After he left, Maman called the landlord to say he would be returning. I think he still needed some persuasion as well.
Maman explained that the landlord still needed to grow up a little and stop being so particular. She said he was younger than the guard, so he should respect him like an older brother.
Maman is like Mother Goose, bringing all these people together; even my host brother and sister are not her real children, and now she has two other sons, the landlord and the guard. She was very satisfied to have stopped the conflict – she said she likes peace and doesn't want any conflict in the neighborhood. Things have seemed to work out: looking out the window a minute ago, I saw the guard sitting outside the gate cooking dinner on a small stove with a few friends, back at work guarding the building.
My second story has to do with some things Adda told me while we were walking around town on Sunday. Adda is a dressmaker/tailor and has customers all over the city. We walked from house to house, trying to collect money for her efforts, but most people weren't home. In the meantime, I asked Adda about a man who comes to visit the house sometimes. He wears a white robe and a small round hat. I asked if he was Muslim, and she said yes, but that he was a “fake Muslim.” And what does that mean? He pretends to be a traditional healer, going to the North to find natural remedies for problems, then bringing them back and charging Maman exorbitant fees for his services. Maman, in Adda's opinion, is gullible in her old age and gives the man more and more money. Adda calls him a “bandit” and a “thief” and is furious at him for taking advantage of Maman's relative wealth. She recounted a long story in which she went to his house at a time when he was supposed to be in the North gathering medicines and caught him hiding in the back, while his wife trembled and tried to cover for him. Before he met Maman, Adda said, his house was shabby, but now that Maman supports him, he's rich and has bought all new furniture. Adda has called the police on him and hopes that they'll figure out his scam and lock him up soon.
He came over again tonight. Adda gave him a dirty look and waited a few minutes before fetching Maman from her room. Maman gave him a big plate of rice and peanut sauce, which we had eaten for dinner, and scolded Adda for making him wait. Back in the kitchen, Adda shook her head at me in frustration.
I should get to bed soon. Unbeknownst to us until today, we have two large projects due on Friday. SIT...always giving us information ahead of time.
I just met Adda's boyfriend, Omar... the adjective that comes to mind is “slick.” According to Adda, he has lots of girlfriends. He seems friendly enough. We had to have our meeting quietly on the balcony so that Maman wouldn't hear. Adda explained that she doesn't like her kids having boyfriends or girlfriends because she doesn't want them to steal her kids away and leave her alone. For this reason, she hates all of her daughters-in-law.
My sister on our balcony
A couple things I wanted to write about. First, a story from Sunday night. The landlord of our building hired, some time ago, a guard to sit out front. Last weekend, he fired the guard; according to Maman and Adda, it's because the landlord is very particular and never satisfied with things as they are. Over lunch with Maman, he told her that she needed to find a new guard, to which Maman replied that she liked the old one and wanted him to come back. After some convincing, he agreed. Thus Adda, Simon and I were enlisted to find him. We believed he lived next door, in one of the shacks, so we stopped by Sunday afternoon. A few men were playing cards on the ground. When we asked if our former guard was around, they said they didn't know him. Later that night, Simon went over and told them that we wanted him to come back and guard the house, and they gave him the same response. Then some little boys ran over and told us that he wasn't a guard anymore – he had changed his job. Eventually, a woman came over (the mother of the boys) and said that they knew him, but that he was very angry at the landlord for mistreating him and did not want us to find him. Adda explained that all the children in the neighborhood said that they didn't know him; they both laughed. Apparently the whole quarter knew of the landlord's abuses.
Two boys from the neighborhood. The one on the right insisted that the guard had changed professions
Her other son, a boy of about 8 or 9 wearing tight flared pants and a Cameroonian large-collared shirt, said he had seen the man around and would go find him. He ran off up the hill. About ten minutes later, he returned saying he couldn't find him; we asked another man, who said he was in that direction, and the boy ran off again. When he returned, he said the guard was sitting in a bar on the street and he could lead us there. We followed him through the neighborhood, between shacks and up a narrow, rocky path to the main street, then up the street to a bar, where he pointed at the man sitting outside with his friends. Adda went over to speak with him, shaking his hand and saying that Maman wanted him to return and continuing working for us. He seemed hesitant. Finally, he agreed to come speak with Maman and followed along behind us as we walked back to the house (this time, along the main road). Adda thanked the boy for helping us and he ran off, satisfied to be successful at his mission.
Upstairs in the apartment, Adda and I listened while Maman heard the guard's grievances. Whenever the guard had swept the stairs, the landlord said, “You didn't do this well enough! Do it again!” When the guard tried to go to Mass one Sunday, the landlord chased him and asked why he wasn't working. He even threatened to take away his national identity card. At some point, he threatened to fire all of the guards in the area. I didn't catch all of what the man said, but it sounded like the landlord was a real asshole.
Maman asked the man point-blank if he wanted to come back and work here. He didn't respond. She asked again, saying it was a simple question. Again he described the landlord's harassment. Maman stopped him, saying, “The landlord, he's my son.” (He's not really her son.) “I'll talk to him about all of these things, we'll work it out.” She asked the man how old he was and he hesitated before saying he was 48 years old. “So you're my son, too,” she said (Maman is 62). “You're both my sons, we can all get along.” After much further persuasion, he agreed to come back and guard the house. Maman is very convincing.
Later Adda told me how this man was from the North, and in the North people don't know their ages. The man could have been anywhere from 40 or 55 (he looked younger to me, but I'm bad at guessing ages). After he left, Maman called the landlord to say he would be returning. I think he still needed some persuasion as well.
Maman explained that the landlord still needed to grow up a little and stop being so particular. She said he was younger than the guard, so he should respect him like an older brother.
Maman is like Mother Goose, bringing all these people together; even my host brother and sister are not her real children, and now she has two other sons, the landlord and the guard. She was very satisfied to have stopped the conflict – she said she likes peace and doesn't want any conflict in the neighborhood. Things have seemed to work out: looking out the window a minute ago, I saw the guard sitting outside the gate cooking dinner on a small stove with a few friends, back at work guarding the building.
My second story has to do with some things Adda told me while we were walking around town on Sunday. Adda is a dressmaker/tailor and has customers all over the city. We walked from house to house, trying to collect money for her efforts, but most people weren't home. In the meantime, I asked Adda about a man who comes to visit the house sometimes. He wears a white robe and a small round hat. I asked if he was Muslim, and she said yes, but that he was a “fake Muslim.” And what does that mean? He pretends to be a traditional healer, going to the North to find natural remedies for problems, then bringing them back and charging Maman exorbitant fees for his services. Maman, in Adda's opinion, is gullible in her old age and gives the man more and more money. Adda calls him a “bandit” and a “thief” and is furious at him for taking advantage of Maman's relative wealth. She recounted a long story in which she went to his house at a time when he was supposed to be in the North gathering medicines and caught him hiding in the back, while his wife trembled and tried to cover for him. Before he met Maman, Adda said, his house was shabby, but now that Maman supports him, he's rich and has bought all new furniture. Adda has called the police on him and hopes that they'll figure out his scam and lock him up soon.
He came over again tonight. Adda gave him a dirty look and waited a few minutes before fetching Maman from her room. Maman gave him a big plate of rice and peanut sauce, which we had eaten for dinner, and scolded Adda for making him wait. Back in the kitchen, Adda shook her head at me in frustration.
I should get to bed soon. Unbeknownst to us until today, we have two large projects due on Friday. SIT...always giving us information ahead of time.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Gorillas and Bars
Sunday, February 7: 4:12 pm
Another day of laundry and dishes. I just ate cassava for the first time, mashed up and called couscous (similar to the mashed corn couscous, but gummier). It has no flavor at all, but I ate it with a sauce made from tomatoes, “gombo” (not sure what that is), and various other vegetables. It was quite tasty.
Outside my window, I can hear the Italian song “Time to Say Goodbye” playing loudly. Odd...I wouldn't have expected arias in this neighborhood, but I guess you can never judge!
I don't know if I'll ever really get the hang of doing laundry by hand. My host sister helped me do it today – apparently I don't “frotter” (scrub) with enough force. Also, for the second time, one of my shirts bled in the bucket, turning my white underwear pink. Oh well.
Things are going pretty well in our new apartment. The living room, though much smaller than the old one, looks lovely. The family told Nathalie, the homestay coordinator, that we moved here, and I talked with her a little bit. I told her I didn't want to change families, though she said she's a little concerned because this neighborhood is so far from SIT. It's only a ten-minute cab ride, though, so I'm not too worried. Nathalie isn't concerned about safety, though, and she said that if I want to stay here, it's no problem. I'm supposed to keep her updated.
The living room
Last night was my first attempt at a night out on the town. While I wouldn't call it an epic failure, it came pretty close. The outing was organized by Jovial, one of the three Cameroonian students who is with the group all the time, and the plan was to start at a bar nearby at 8 pm and eventually head to a nightclub, where we would dance until 4:30 am. (According to all of the Cameroonians, this is the normal ending time for parties; all of the Americans were shocked and admitted they weren't sure if they could stay out that late.) In order to go, we had to get permission from our host parents; Maman said that I would need to bring my host brother Simon along, since it's dangerous to walk alone at night. Simon was enthusiastic about going, though I realized that since I had invited him, I would have to pay for him (Cameroonian rules). In addition, since Simon doesn't currently have a job, he's always low on cash.
We met up with the rest of the group at a bar in Carrefour Golf, not far from the house. Almost all of the Americans had brought their host brothers along. Simon was wearing snazzy clothes and the Chicago hat that I gave him, of which he is very proud. We drank some beers at the bar and kept waiting for more and more people to come. In the meantime, there was a big argument between Zach's host brother and Liza's host brother about some sort of hippie drum circle that Zach had invited Liza to; her brother apparently thought this drum circle was dangerous and inappropriate (and might involve substance use) and that Liza shouldn't be able to go. Liza, being a free-thinking American girl, refused to back down, and Zach's host brother insisted that it was fine. There was much gesturing and near-shouting, and eventually Liza's brother said she could go, but that he was very disappointed in her and he wished she respected him. Feeling guilty, Liza changed her mind and Zach went off alone.
A man arrived at the bar who was some sort of rent-a-cop who had been paid to guard a nightclub visit (by two of the American girls and their host brothers) last week; this time, he wasn't being paid, he just wanted to join us (a little shady). The Cameroonians seemed to know him, though, so it was all very friendly. After a couple hours, we were all ready to go to the nightclub, but the man invited everyone to another bar, where he would buy us drinks and food. We all hopped in cabs (7 people per taxi – lots of lap-sitting and squeezing) and headed to the other bar, which looked nice. I ordered a drink and chitchatted with Simon and Liza's host brother, who speaks English fairly well. He told me that his sister is in Washington, DC working for the World Bank (though he said he doesn't really like the World Bank, which is the message I get from most Cameroonians). My conversation with Simon was a bit more depressing, since we talked about how he's frustrated that he's a good technician but can't find a job in Cameroon. He wants to go the US, where he believes he could find a job much more easily. I explained that there are a many unemployed people in the US and it's not so easy to find a job – but I felt bad because this seemed to crush his dreams. The chance that he would ever make it to the US, though, is low.
At midnight, we still hadn't left the bar; finally, the bill came and it became clear that the policeman was angry at being excluded from the conversations (not that I had noticed) and was not going to pay for all the drinks. Again, I had to pay for my own drinks and Simon's; the night was becoming expensive. Everyone was upset at having to pay after being told we were getting free drinks. At 12:15, it was time to go the club – but I had already spent more than I had intended and, having been awake since 6:30 am, I was exhausted. I thought that if I went to the club and paid the 5000 francs ($10) entrance fee for myself and for Simon, I would end up going inside for a half-hour and then being too exhausted to dance. Plus, we had to get up at 6 the next day to go to Mass. I asked Simon if he would be upset if we went home, and he said it was okay (though he seemed disappointed). Jovial was also disappointed and apologized for leading us to the second bar with the policeman.
Back home, I collapsed immediately into my mosquito tent and fell asleep. When I woke up this morning, I was still exhausted and got up to talk to my host sister, who was preparing for Mass. She could see that I was very tired and asked if I was too sleepy to go; I said yes. I felt bad not joining the family, but I think that maybe one Mass experience is enough for me. I went back to bed and didn't wake up until 9 am (so late!).
Mirror Jesus scolds me for skipping Mass
So, the night wasn't so great. Even so, talking with people at the bars was fun. And fortunately, I had a fantastic day yesterday – art school and gorillas!
The art school was interesting. It's run by a Catholic Mission (there are pictures of the Pope visiting), meaning it's much cheaper than the public or private universities. People say it's the best art school in Cameroon and, indeed, the art we saw was impressive. A lot of people in the group bought pottery and sculptures. We also met a young Italian man who was studying art there – it's always exciting to see other white people around.
From the art school, we took a bus to Mefou National Park, a primate sanctuary that I had actually found online a few years ago. It was as incredible as I was hoping. There were baby chimps in the nursery, full-grown chimps and gorillas running around large forested enclosures, baboons, mandrills, and various smaller monkeys. I was smiling the whole time. The animals generally have free run of the enclosures, but if you shout their names, they come running to see who's there. The silverback gorilla in one group was named Bobo (also the name of the SIT office coordinator); we shouted “Bobo! Bobo!” until he ran up, his family tagging along behind.
We met a middle-aged American woman there who said she'd been working at Mefou for about ten months. Before that, she was a corporate interior decorator in Manhattan for ten years. One day she just decided to leave her life behind, put all of her things in storage, and move to Cameroon to live with gorillas and chimps. Talk about a midlife crisis!
We met another interesting person repairing a fence around the chimp enclosure. Though he was Cameroonian, he was wearing a Hebrew shirt that said “Israel at 50” on it. The other Jewish students and I were intrigued – we asked him where he had gotten the shirt, and he said that he had gone to Israel to learn how to build enclosures. Evidently, the Israeli government and various Israeli individuals support the park. The man even spoke a bit of Hebrew.
Inside the park, there's a small village, which I suppose has been there since before the park was built. The people go about their daily lives in mud huts, not paying much attention to the gorillas romping about (behind the fences). I'm interested in their lives and am considering inquiring about doing my independent study project there, learning about their relationship with the park and how they feel about the primates (which are seen by most Cameroonians as bush meat).
Now I'm off to do some readings for class tomorrow, all about development (and a critique of Obama's speech in Ghana, which some Africans found disappointing). And I need to read more of my French book, “Je suis noir and je n'aime pas le manioc” (“I'm black and I don't like cassava”). I can understand that...it's pretty flavorless.
Tuesday, February 9: 7:50 am
More stories to tell, never enough time to tell them. A couple things:
1) There's a group of people outside our house who sing and clap loudly all night. My siblings said it was a Christian cult.
2) Children here will do anything for people who are older than them. After a drama involving our former guard being fired by the landlord, and Maman insisting that he return, we enlisted the help of a child who looked in every bar on the street until he found him. He's back. More on that later.
3) Zach ended up in jail on Saturday night, apparently because the police was collecting random people from the street at 4 am. By giving 2000 francs ($4), he got out.
Today we're going to hear from a government minister who resigned after his attempts to fight corruption failed. Interesting!
Another day of laundry and dishes. I just ate cassava for the first time, mashed up and called couscous (similar to the mashed corn couscous, but gummier). It has no flavor at all, but I ate it with a sauce made from tomatoes, “gombo” (not sure what that is), and various other vegetables. It was quite tasty.
Outside my window, I can hear the Italian song “Time to Say Goodbye” playing loudly. Odd...I wouldn't have expected arias in this neighborhood, but I guess you can never judge!
I don't know if I'll ever really get the hang of doing laundry by hand. My host sister helped me do it today – apparently I don't “frotter” (scrub) with enough force. Also, for the second time, one of my shirts bled in the bucket, turning my white underwear pink. Oh well.
Things are going pretty well in our new apartment. The living room, though much smaller than the old one, looks lovely. The family told Nathalie, the homestay coordinator, that we moved here, and I talked with her a little bit. I told her I didn't want to change families, though she said she's a little concerned because this neighborhood is so far from SIT. It's only a ten-minute cab ride, though, so I'm not too worried. Nathalie isn't concerned about safety, though, and she said that if I want to stay here, it's no problem. I'm supposed to keep her updated.
The living room
Last night was my first attempt at a night out on the town. While I wouldn't call it an epic failure, it came pretty close. The outing was organized by Jovial, one of the three Cameroonian students who is with the group all the time, and the plan was to start at a bar nearby at 8 pm and eventually head to a nightclub, where we would dance until 4:30 am. (According to all of the Cameroonians, this is the normal ending time for parties; all of the Americans were shocked and admitted they weren't sure if they could stay out that late.) In order to go, we had to get permission from our host parents; Maman said that I would need to bring my host brother Simon along, since it's dangerous to walk alone at night. Simon was enthusiastic about going, though I realized that since I had invited him, I would have to pay for him (Cameroonian rules). In addition, since Simon doesn't currently have a job, he's always low on cash.
We met up with the rest of the group at a bar in Carrefour Golf, not far from the house. Almost all of the Americans had brought their host brothers along. Simon was wearing snazzy clothes and the Chicago hat that I gave him, of which he is very proud. We drank some beers at the bar and kept waiting for more and more people to come. In the meantime, there was a big argument between Zach's host brother and Liza's host brother about some sort of hippie drum circle that Zach had invited Liza to; her brother apparently thought this drum circle was dangerous and inappropriate (and might involve substance use) and that Liza shouldn't be able to go. Liza, being a free-thinking American girl, refused to back down, and Zach's host brother insisted that it was fine. There was much gesturing and near-shouting, and eventually Liza's brother said she could go, but that he was very disappointed in her and he wished she respected him. Feeling guilty, Liza changed her mind and Zach went off alone.
A man arrived at the bar who was some sort of rent-a-cop who had been paid to guard a nightclub visit (by two of the American girls and their host brothers) last week; this time, he wasn't being paid, he just wanted to join us (a little shady). The Cameroonians seemed to know him, though, so it was all very friendly. After a couple hours, we were all ready to go to the nightclub, but the man invited everyone to another bar, where he would buy us drinks and food. We all hopped in cabs (7 people per taxi – lots of lap-sitting and squeezing) and headed to the other bar, which looked nice. I ordered a drink and chitchatted with Simon and Liza's host brother, who speaks English fairly well. He told me that his sister is in Washington, DC working for the World Bank (though he said he doesn't really like the World Bank, which is the message I get from most Cameroonians). My conversation with Simon was a bit more depressing, since we talked about how he's frustrated that he's a good technician but can't find a job in Cameroon. He wants to go the US, where he believes he could find a job much more easily. I explained that there are a many unemployed people in the US and it's not so easy to find a job – but I felt bad because this seemed to crush his dreams. The chance that he would ever make it to the US, though, is low.
At midnight, we still hadn't left the bar; finally, the bill came and it became clear that the policeman was angry at being excluded from the conversations (not that I had noticed) and was not going to pay for all the drinks. Again, I had to pay for my own drinks and Simon's; the night was becoming expensive. Everyone was upset at having to pay after being told we were getting free drinks. At 12:15, it was time to go the club – but I had already spent more than I had intended and, having been awake since 6:30 am, I was exhausted. I thought that if I went to the club and paid the 5000 francs ($10) entrance fee for myself and for Simon, I would end up going inside for a half-hour and then being too exhausted to dance. Plus, we had to get up at 6 the next day to go to Mass. I asked Simon if he would be upset if we went home, and he said it was okay (though he seemed disappointed). Jovial was also disappointed and apologized for leading us to the second bar with the policeman.
Back home, I collapsed immediately into my mosquito tent and fell asleep. When I woke up this morning, I was still exhausted and got up to talk to my host sister, who was preparing for Mass. She could see that I was very tired and asked if I was too sleepy to go; I said yes. I felt bad not joining the family, but I think that maybe one Mass experience is enough for me. I went back to bed and didn't wake up until 9 am (so late!).
Mirror Jesus scolds me for skipping Mass
So, the night wasn't so great. Even so, talking with people at the bars was fun. And fortunately, I had a fantastic day yesterday – art school and gorillas!
The art school was interesting. It's run by a Catholic Mission (there are pictures of the Pope visiting), meaning it's much cheaper than the public or private universities. People say it's the best art school in Cameroon and, indeed, the art we saw was impressive. A lot of people in the group bought pottery and sculptures. We also met a young Italian man who was studying art there – it's always exciting to see other white people around.
From the art school, we took a bus to Mefou National Park, a primate sanctuary that I had actually found online a few years ago. It was as incredible as I was hoping. There were baby chimps in the nursery, full-grown chimps and gorillas running around large forested enclosures, baboons, mandrills, and various smaller monkeys. I was smiling the whole time. The animals generally have free run of the enclosures, but if you shout their names, they come running to see who's there. The silverback gorilla in one group was named Bobo (also the name of the SIT office coordinator); we shouted “Bobo! Bobo!” until he ran up, his family tagging along behind.
We met a middle-aged American woman there who said she'd been working at Mefou for about ten months. Before that, she was a corporate interior decorator in Manhattan for ten years. One day she just decided to leave her life behind, put all of her things in storage, and move to Cameroon to live with gorillas and chimps. Talk about a midlife crisis!
We met another interesting person repairing a fence around the chimp enclosure. Though he was Cameroonian, he was wearing a Hebrew shirt that said “Israel at 50” on it. The other Jewish students and I were intrigued – we asked him where he had gotten the shirt, and he said that he had gone to Israel to learn how to build enclosures. Evidently, the Israeli government and various Israeli individuals support the park. The man even spoke a bit of Hebrew.
Inside the park, there's a small village, which I suppose has been there since before the park was built. The people go about their daily lives in mud huts, not paying much attention to the gorillas romping about (behind the fences). I'm interested in their lives and am considering inquiring about doing my independent study project there, learning about their relationship with the park and how they feel about the primates (which are seen by most Cameroonians as bush meat).
Now I'm off to do some readings for class tomorrow, all about development (and a critique of Obama's speech in Ghana, which some Africans found disappointing). And I need to read more of my French book, “Je suis noir and je n'aime pas le manioc” (“I'm black and I don't like cassava”). I can understand that...it's pretty flavorless.
Tuesday, February 9: 7:50 am
More stories to tell, never enough time to tell them. A couple things:
1) There's a group of people outside our house who sing and clap loudly all night. My siblings said it was a Christian cult.
2) Children here will do anything for people who are older than them. After a drama involving our former guard being fired by the landlord, and Maman insisting that he return, we enlisted the help of a child who looked in every bar on the street until he found him. He's back. More on that later.
3) Zach ended up in jail on Saturday night, apparently because the police was collecting random people from the street at 4 am. By giving 2000 francs ($4), he got out.
Today we're going to hear from a government minister who resigned after his attempts to fight corruption failed. Interesting!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Moving, Dancing, and Drumming
Suddenly, earlier this week, my host family told me we were moving. The reasons were a bit unclear to me, but I overheard my host sister saying something like, "the financial crisis has touched a lot of people." Originally, the family was going to move to another of the "SIT-approved" neighborhoods, called Golf, but there was a problem with the landlord. Instead, we moved to a slightly farther neighborhood called Etoua Meki. My family said they were planning to tell Nathalie, our homestay coordinator, after we moved in.
The neighborhood is much more mixed than Bastos, which is the wealthiest in Yaounde. We live in a small but nice apartment in a two-flat, next-door to mud-walled shacks. For security purposes, we have a guard who sits outside and a police officer who drives through the area each night. (To achieve this, Maman took me to the police station, where everyone seemed to know her. "Bonjour, Maman!" they said. She put her arm around me and explained that she was caring for a young American, and needed extra security around the house. They agreed without argument. It seems that Maman has some pull around here...)
This afternoon at the SIT office, we had an intense dance class that was a mixture of workout routine and traditional African dance. There was a lot of hip-thrusting. The background music was supplied by a drummer playing a West African instrument called djembe. The dancing was followed by a drumming lesson, after which my hands felt completely raw. Now I've got to take a taxi back to Etoua Meki (it's a little too far to walk) to see the family. Tomorrow, we're visiting a gorilla sanctuary! I'm so excited!
The neighborhood is much more mixed than Bastos, which is the wealthiest in Yaounde. We live in a small but nice apartment in a two-flat, next-door to mud-walled shacks. For security purposes, we have a guard who sits outside and a police officer who drives through the area each night. (To achieve this, Maman took me to the police station, where everyone seemed to know her. "Bonjour, Maman!" they said. She put her arm around me and explained that she was caring for a young American, and needed extra security around the house. They agreed without argument. It seems that Maman has some pull around here...)
This afternoon at the SIT office, we had an intense dance class that was a mixture of workout routine and traditional African dance. There was a lot of hip-thrusting. The background music was supplied by a drummer playing a West African instrument called djembe. The dancing was followed by a drumming lesson, after which my hands felt completely raw. Now I've got to take a taxi back to Etoua Meki (it's a little too far to walk) to see the family. Tomorrow, we're visiting a gorilla sanctuary! I'm so excited!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Polygamy and Proposals
Monday, February 1: 7:40 pm
My host brother and I just had an interesting conversation about marriage. It started because we were talking about polygamy, which is commonly practiced in Cameroon; he believes that it is wrong, since it leads to many problems within the family. However, his grandfather had two wives and he still knows many people who come from polygamous families. In Cameroon, marriage is generally an economic matter that doesn't factor love into the equation. Even so, young people particularly in urban areas like Yaounde, believe love is important. Most Christians in the country have rejected polygamy, but many Muslims and practitioners of traditional religions continue to adhere to it. I told Simon how polygamy is illegal in the US and is generally seen as unacceptable, but that there are still those (particularly in Utah) who still do it. Since I've had Big Love on my mind lately, I told him about the show and about fundamentalist Mormons. I attempted to explain the case of Warren Jeffs and how people believe he is a prophet, even though he's in prison. He found this funny.
The discussion of polygamy led to a discussion of marriage in general, and Simon asked me what I was looking for in a husband. I said the basics: one who loves me, who understands me, who listens to me, with whom I have good “chemistry” (he said there's a similar expression in Cameroon); his requirements for a wife are that she respects him, listens to him, and loves him. I asked if his current girlfriend was marriage material – he said maybe, in a few years, if she has “bonne comportement” (good behavior). However, if he comes across a woman who has better “behavior,” he would marry her instead. I asked what he meant by “good behavior,” and he was a bit vague; something along the lines of working hard and doing things well.
I also mentioned that my future husband needs to be Jewish, which he (and my host family) completely understood. Given the importance of religion here, it's important to marry someone of your own faith. He asked me if I met an African man whom I loved, would I marry him? I said there aren't many Jews here, so it would be tough; he said I would have to teach them to be Jewish. He added something like, “I like Jews, it's okay.” I felt a little awkward, like he was expressing his openness to the idea of marrying me, so I changed the topic.
None of this was as awkward, though, as what another person on my program told me today – apparently, when she was telling her host parents about how much she enjoyed her little host siblings, they said that she should adopt them and bring them back to the US. Thinking it was a joke, she said, “But won't you miss them a lot?” They said they would, but it was a better idea for them, since they would have more opportunities there.
In other news, apparently members of a Baptist church on a rescue mission in Haiti have been arrested for attempting to take 33 children out of the country.
My host brother and I just had an interesting conversation about marriage. It started because we were talking about polygamy, which is commonly practiced in Cameroon; he believes that it is wrong, since it leads to many problems within the family. However, his grandfather had two wives and he still knows many people who come from polygamous families. In Cameroon, marriage is generally an economic matter that doesn't factor love into the equation. Even so, young people particularly in urban areas like Yaounde, believe love is important. Most Christians in the country have rejected polygamy, but many Muslims and practitioners of traditional religions continue to adhere to it. I told Simon how polygamy is illegal in the US and is generally seen as unacceptable, but that there are still those (particularly in Utah) who still do it. Since I've had Big Love on my mind lately, I told him about the show and about fundamentalist Mormons. I attempted to explain the case of Warren Jeffs and how people believe he is a prophet, even though he's in prison. He found this funny.
The discussion of polygamy led to a discussion of marriage in general, and Simon asked me what I was looking for in a husband. I said the basics: one who loves me, who understands me, who listens to me, with whom I have good “chemistry” (he said there's a similar expression in Cameroon); his requirements for a wife are that she respects him, listens to him, and loves him. I asked if his current girlfriend was marriage material – he said maybe, in a few years, if she has “bonne comportement” (good behavior). However, if he comes across a woman who has better “behavior,” he would marry her instead. I asked what he meant by “good behavior,” and he was a bit vague; something along the lines of working hard and doing things well.
I also mentioned that my future husband needs to be Jewish, which he (and my host family) completely understood. Given the importance of religion here, it's important to marry someone of your own faith. He asked me if I met an African man whom I loved, would I marry him? I said there aren't many Jews here, so it would be tough; he said I would have to teach them to be Jewish. He added something like, “I like Jews, it's okay.” I felt a little awkward, like he was expressing his openness to the idea of marrying me, so I changed the topic.
None of this was as awkward, though, as what another person on my program told me today – apparently, when she was telling her host parents about how much she enjoyed her little host siblings, they said that she should adopt them and bring them back to the US. Thinking it was a joke, she said, “But won't you miss them a lot?” They said they would, but it was a better idea for them, since they would have more opportunities there.
In other news, apparently members of a Baptist church on a rescue mission in Haiti have been arrested for attempting to take 33 children out of the country.
Monday, February 1, 2010
First Weekend
Sunday, January 31: 2:00 pm
What a crazy few days it's been! This weekend, I've spent a lot of time with my host siblings and mother. Yesterday, my brother and I walked around the city and he showed me some interesting spots. On the way back, we stopped at his girlfriend's house – but he told me not to tell Maman that we had done this, since she doesn't like it when he goes there. Her adorable little sisters were watching cartoons and I gave them some stickers with smiley faces and dogs on them, which they were very excited about. Then Simon's girlfriend put on some Cameroonian music and told the little girls to show me how they dance. One girl stuck our her butt and put her hands in front of her chest and starting wiggling, shaking her butt really fast. We laughed, and she kept dancing like that; I was told that Cameroonian women dance with their butts!
Back home, I watched a friend of Adda's style her hair, which was a long and painful process. I finally understand what it means to have a weave – after braiding Adda's hair into tight cornrows, the stylist sewed on blondish-brown hair extensions with a needle and thread. I told Adda about the English expression, “Beauty is pain,” and she agreed.
Later, I helped Maman prepare a traditional Cameroonian dish called Ndole. She cut down a huge pile of branches from a tree in the backyard and lay them on the kitchen floor, where we sat on stools and pulled off the leaves. She told me to taste a leaf – it was very bitter, to the point of being inedible. She said that you had to wash it many times to get rid of the bitter taste. After we pulled off all the leaves, she grabbed bundle by bundle and chopped them up into small pieces. When she was done, there was a entire large basket full of it, and I asked whether the family could eat all of this. She explained that in Cameroon, you always prepare for more people because you never know who's going to come over for meals.
Maman preparing Ndole
Once the leaves were chopped, we started the washing process. First we placed them in a large pot of boiling water; then Maman took the pot off the flame and removed all of the leaves, handful by handful, squeezing the water out. She told me to taste the water, which was very bitter. She said you continued this process – boiling and squeezing with new water – until the water was no longer bitter. After three times, it was ready, and she moved chunks of Ndole from the pot to a wooden bowl, where she mashed it up with a tall stick. She let me try mashing for a bit as well. What struck me about the whole experience is that she is a government minister, a modern woman, but she still spends hours preparing traditional meals like this. Tradition matters here.
I take a turn mashing the Ndole
As we worked, we talked about religion. My host family is very curious about Judaism, though they are devout Catholics. She told me how in Judaism and Christianity, there's only God, and you pray to him, and that's all that matters. She invited me to come to church the next day (which I did – more on that later!); while they prayed in French, Latin, and Beti (a local language), I should pray in Hebrew. I was excited to go!
The outside of the church. We didn't actually go inside this building, though
Last night I gave my family some of the gifts that I brought, including a 550-piece puzzle of the US flag with various politicians' campaign buttons on it. My sister was interested in learning how to “play this game,” so I showed her the basic jigsaw puzzle method: separate the edges from the insides, look for corners, categorize the pieces by colors, and so on. It took a long time, but we're starting to make some progress. She said that at some point she hopes we “win the game.”
A blurry image of church
This morning, we woke up at 6 am to go to Mass. As we were walking in, I saw a woman leading a goat on a string, which I was confused about. Later in the service, I realized that people had brought offerings for the poor, including live goats, chickens, a large (and fortunately dead) fish, and various other items – a big pack of toilet paper, lots of bottled water, and a bizarre number of pineapples.
What a crazy few days it's been! This weekend, I've spent a lot of time with my host siblings and mother. Yesterday, my brother and I walked around the city and he showed me some interesting spots. On the way back, we stopped at his girlfriend's house – but he told me not to tell Maman that we had done this, since she doesn't like it when he goes there. Her adorable little sisters were watching cartoons and I gave them some stickers with smiley faces and dogs on them, which they were very excited about. Then Simon's girlfriend put on some Cameroonian music and told the little girls to show me how they dance. One girl stuck our her butt and put her hands in front of her chest and starting wiggling, shaking her butt really fast. We laughed, and she kept dancing like that; I was told that Cameroonian women dance with their butts!
Back home, I watched a friend of Adda's style her hair, which was a long and painful process. I finally understand what it means to have a weave – after braiding Adda's hair into tight cornrows, the stylist sewed on blondish-brown hair extensions with a needle and thread. I told Adda about the English expression, “Beauty is pain,” and she agreed.
Later, I helped Maman prepare a traditional Cameroonian dish called Ndole. She cut down a huge pile of branches from a tree in the backyard and lay them on the kitchen floor, where we sat on stools and pulled off the leaves. She told me to taste a leaf – it was very bitter, to the point of being inedible. She said that you had to wash it many times to get rid of the bitter taste. After we pulled off all the leaves, she grabbed bundle by bundle and chopped them up into small pieces. When she was done, there was a entire large basket full of it, and I asked whether the family could eat all of this. She explained that in Cameroon, you always prepare for more people because you never know who's going to come over for meals.
Maman preparing Ndole
Once the leaves were chopped, we started the washing process. First we placed them in a large pot of boiling water; then Maman took the pot off the flame and removed all of the leaves, handful by handful, squeezing the water out. She told me to taste the water, which was very bitter. She said you continued this process – boiling and squeezing with new water – until the water was no longer bitter. After three times, it was ready, and she moved chunks of Ndole from the pot to a wooden bowl, where she mashed it up with a tall stick. She let me try mashing for a bit as well. What struck me about the whole experience is that she is a government minister, a modern woman, but she still spends hours preparing traditional meals like this. Tradition matters here.
I take a turn mashing the Ndole
As we worked, we talked about religion. My host family is very curious about Judaism, though they are devout Catholics. She told me how in Judaism and Christianity, there's only God, and you pray to him, and that's all that matters. She invited me to come to church the next day (which I did – more on that later!); while they prayed in French, Latin, and Beti (a local language), I should pray in Hebrew. I was excited to go!
The outside of the church. We didn't actually go inside this building, though
Last night I gave my family some of the gifts that I brought, including a 550-piece puzzle of the US flag with various politicians' campaign buttons on it. My sister was interested in learning how to “play this game,” so I showed her the basic jigsaw puzzle method: separate the edges from the insides, look for corners, categorize the pieces by colors, and so on. It took a long time, but we're starting to make some progress. She said that at some point she hopes we “win the game.”
A blurry image of church
This morning, we woke up at 6 am to go to Mass. As we were walking in, I saw a woman leading a goat on a string, which I was confused about. Later in the service, I realized that people had brought offerings for the poor, including live goats, chickens, a large (and fortunately dead) fish, and various other items – a big pack of toilet paper, lots of bottled water, and a bizarre number of pineapples.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Women
Quick post before I head back to my house: I just had a conversation with my host sister (who I think is in her 20s) about marriage in Cameroon. She was talking about how the reason that men want to marry younger women is that they are more likely to submit to the husband's authority; as women grow older, they become more independent and less likely to listen to their husband's orders. She said that God meant for women to be subordinate, and when they aren't, there are a lot of problems in the relationship. I said that women in the US don't want to be subordinate to men, and she said that's why there are so many single women there (which she said is very bad). It was very interesting. What's fascinating about this particular family is that it's a modern, well-off, urban family, but they still hold these traditional ideas. Also, the mother is some sort of government minister, which is how they have so much money, but as my sister explained to me, "You can be the minister at the office, but at home, you're a wife."
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