To Cameroonians, dogs are either good for “le chase ou le guard;” They are either hunting dogs or guard dogs. And every dog that gracefully herds a pack of village goats to some random destination gets grouped into the hunting category. After having lived with Owondo for a year now, I think it is safe to say that many village dogs here in Cameroon are neither good for hunting nor guarding. But they are amazing herding dogs, and if properly trained could be great additions to the Haoussa men who walk alongside cattle trying to keep the beef from messing too much with vehicle traffic.
In the heat of a 2pm sun, Owondo and I took our bazillionth walk down the road, past the site of the Comice. I let him off leash as usual and, as usual, thought how stupid I was to let him off leash ‘cause the damn dog never comes when I call him. Today, he ventured down a footpath right to where some short and browned grass in a perfect square remind visitors of where the longest standing tent from the Comice stood until just a few weeks ago. Owondo, usually too distracted by the flocks of tiny brown birds that perch on the ends of grasses and scatter in perfect waves when he leaps too close, stopped dead in his tracks: off to one end of the browned patch of earth, he saw cows! Cows and goats, maybe 10 of each, grazing together, unwatched save for our eyes. This is the closest he has come to a cow, and certainly the first time he has encountered a free range cow in his entire life.
I watch him from 10 feet down the footpath as he contemplates how to handle this situation. He often sees goats, as villagers keep a steady stash of them for emergency purposes like to pay for funeral costs or wedding celebrations (though the goats usually grow too old or die before they become financially useful). Sometimes I like to let him off leash to watch him chase the goats, partly because I love seeing Owondo at his happiest and partly for the sense of empathy I feel for all the villagers who’ve lost crops to stupid, useless goats. The goats are usually just barely faster than him, even the month-old babies, and I’m not sure if he even wants to catch one or just nip at its heels for a while (which might also explain his obsession with feet). It seems he makes his decision in a split second, and runs after a group of 4 goats grazing together. He successfully herds them back with the other animals grazing off in a patch of tall grasses to the side, though he seems too afraid to try to keep the few stray big cows tucked in with the larger group.
I move in closer to him. Part of me is afraid he is going to try to herd the cows and get his skull crushed, and the other part wants to try to encourage him to interact with the cows. It is only in moving close that you can hear the animals chomping away at the tall grasses, and the sound, combined with the movement of the grasses in the slight breeze, reminds me of the ocean waves. Owondo, if trained, could be like a boat cutting through that ocean, redirecting the waves momentarily until they get back to a regular, calm movement. Instead, after watching the cows for a while, he backs down, maybe realizing they are too big in number and too big in size to mess with. I bribe him to let me put his leash back on, and start the walk back home, though I have to pull Owondo part of the way because he can’t stop fantasizing about the cows (or the beef).
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
How do you say Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who has been stealing your water bill payments for months on end?
I find myself in a weird state of existence. This was partly spurred by the visit from my mom and sister who were brave enough to come visit me, though (one can say) stupid enough to spend their vacation days fighting it out in Cameroon. I think I can safely say that they both greatly disliked the country as a whole, though they enjoyed the company of my friends. What I learned in the transition from my 1st year as a PCV to the 2nd is that there is a beauty in forgetting what the Western world is like. In re-creating all that you know as a functional society, living here becomes simple, though particularly so as a PCV when you know that your salary is coming at the end of every month on time and in predictable amounts. It is the contrast of what Cameroonians call “the white world”, though particularly America, that makes the transition into society here difficult. I can’t even fathom why someone would want to come here as a tourist, and the entire function of being a tourist here certainly tries to keep people away (from the airplane ticket costs, to the visas, to the malaria, communication barriers, lack of electricity and consistent water problems, to how tourists are treated by people who want to make a dime and the authorities). So, that being said, who wants to visit?
The whole inspiration of this blog, aside from the recent visit from family, is my landlady. As you can tell from the title of this entry, she has apparently been stealing the whole compound water payments for quite a while. On my return from the beach (a place I never wanted to leave in the first place), Mama Anastasia started to tell me a story about why there is no water in the house. When she told me that the water company brought a bill to my landlady, I couldn’t even comprehend the amount that she said was in back payment. Cent soixante dix sept mille cinq cent. Knowing that water is around 1 thousand a month for me and because numbers in French are always difficult for English speakers (100 60 17 500), it took me a good 5 minutes to understand the complete amount that is due to the company. I mean for the 4 families that get water from the same counter, generously assuming that each family uses about 5.000 in water each month, we arrive at 20.000 per month, which means that she has been doing what, exactly, with certainly over 9 months of water payments? The volunteer I replaced would always claim problems with her water and electricity bill. I figure the math is always right, and even if she is getting a few hundred extra CFA from me each month, it is worth it to not have to stand in line to pay my bill at the water and electricity society. Plus, she is a God-fearing Jehova’s Witness! If anything, God will get her at the end. I have yet to confront her to find out the story from her side (or the story she wants to tell me), but the fact is, the water company removed the water counter, so there will no longer be any water in my house. And that really sucks.
But here is my weird state of existence: Nothing surprises me like it used to. I feel like I should be angry that my slumlord has been eating my money that should have been going all along to the water company to ensure that I have even the luxury of running water in my house (even if it is unreliable at best). As if the 30.000 she gets every month for a poorly constructed apartment isn’t enough… When I think of all those months I lived without running water, and how there were days when all I wanted to do was cry because I was so tired thinking about water, I get upset knowing that I am going to face that again. But here is what is weird; One year ago when the road construction company started building the road and cut our pipes, I raised hell to anyone who would listen, and 10 days later (oddly enough with the help of my landlady) some random people helped us out by fixing it. Then a few months after that, my pipes were destroyed again. I had to wait 6 months to get water back in the house, and even then I passed by the water society every day to talk the boss into fixing our problem. And now I am here, feeling some strange sense of apathy about this problem. Maybe it is because I have yet to reach the end of my reserves, or that I have faith that it will all work out in the end, or maybe it is just my subconscious resignment to move to another apartment. If I were me one year ago, I would be up in arms. I think my time in Cameroon has done nothing but mellow me out, or jump on the “On va faire comment (what are you gonna do)?” boat with all the Cameroonians who feel, and essentially are, powerless.
I noticed this even with my family, particularly when they would get upset about how things work, or suggest alternatives to the realities of life here. Living here, fully immersed (one can say “drowning”) in Cameroonian culture, it becomes easy to forget that there are alternatives. People here cry “poverty” so much that even the word has become a sickness. Poverty is the reason for how everything functions in this society, and I wonder whether people ever start to realize they lack of creativity because they can’t even imagine a way out. Maybe they should use the word “powerless” instead because then, at least, they would be handcuffed to the word and its meaning. And when we talk about development, which is theoretically the way out of this supposed poverty, probably the landlady should at least be paying the water company, and then pocketing the little extra she has been charging us. This way, the water company, Camwater (which I endearingly refer to as Scamwater) can make their money, and I can have my water, and the Camwater employees can have their salaries, and my slumlord can build more slums.
The whole inspiration of this blog, aside from the recent visit from family, is my landlady. As you can tell from the title of this entry, she has apparently been stealing the whole compound water payments for quite a while. On my return from the beach (a place I never wanted to leave in the first place), Mama Anastasia started to tell me a story about why there is no water in the house. When she told me that the water company brought a bill to my landlady, I couldn’t even comprehend the amount that she said was in back payment. Cent soixante dix sept mille cinq cent. Knowing that water is around 1 thousand a month for me and because numbers in French are always difficult for English speakers (100 60 17 500), it took me a good 5 minutes to understand the complete amount that is due to the company. I mean for the 4 families that get water from the same counter, generously assuming that each family uses about 5.000 in water each month, we arrive at 20.000 per month, which means that she has been doing what, exactly, with certainly over 9 months of water payments? The volunteer I replaced would always claim problems with her water and electricity bill. I figure the math is always right, and even if she is getting a few hundred extra CFA from me each month, it is worth it to not have to stand in line to pay my bill at the water and electricity society. Plus, she is a God-fearing Jehova’s Witness! If anything, God will get her at the end. I have yet to confront her to find out the story from her side (or the story she wants to tell me), but the fact is, the water company removed the water counter, so there will no longer be any water in my house. And that really sucks.
But here is my weird state of existence: Nothing surprises me like it used to. I feel like I should be angry that my slumlord has been eating my money that should have been going all along to the water company to ensure that I have even the luxury of running water in my house (even if it is unreliable at best). As if the 30.000 she gets every month for a poorly constructed apartment isn’t enough… When I think of all those months I lived without running water, and how there were days when all I wanted to do was cry because I was so tired thinking about water, I get upset knowing that I am going to face that again. But here is what is weird; One year ago when the road construction company started building the road and cut our pipes, I raised hell to anyone who would listen, and 10 days later (oddly enough with the help of my landlady) some random people helped us out by fixing it. Then a few months after that, my pipes were destroyed again. I had to wait 6 months to get water back in the house, and even then I passed by the water society every day to talk the boss into fixing our problem. And now I am here, feeling some strange sense of apathy about this problem. Maybe it is because I have yet to reach the end of my reserves, or that I have faith that it will all work out in the end, or maybe it is just my subconscious resignment to move to another apartment. If I were me one year ago, I would be up in arms. I think my time in Cameroon has done nothing but mellow me out, or jump on the “On va faire comment (what are you gonna do)?” boat with all the Cameroonians who feel, and essentially are, powerless.
I noticed this even with my family, particularly when they would get upset about how things work, or suggest alternatives to the realities of life here. Living here, fully immersed (one can say “drowning”) in Cameroonian culture, it becomes easy to forget that there are alternatives. People here cry “poverty” so much that even the word has become a sickness. Poverty is the reason for how everything functions in this society, and I wonder whether people ever start to realize they lack of creativity because they can’t even imagine a way out. Maybe they should use the word “powerless” instead because then, at least, they would be handcuffed to the word and its meaning. And when we talk about development, which is theoretically the way out of this supposed poverty, probably the landlady should at least be paying the water company, and then pocketing the little extra she has been charging us. This way, the water company, Camwater (which I endearingly refer to as Scamwater) can make their money, and I can have my water, and the Camwater employees can have their salaries, and my slumlord can build more slums.
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