The technology of tractors may seem less than enthralling nowadays. We have tractors that can do just about everything- thresh grain, dig holes, seed corn- all with the help of GPS so that the farmer in the cabin doesn’t even have to touch a single control. Here in the South of Cameroon, one is hard pressed to find land that is cultivatable with the help of tractors. With the Comice, the 2011 agric show, came a tractor assembly factory just a half a mile from my house. Here, outdated tractor technology is mostly out of the average farmers hands, primarily because of financing, but also because most of the land that the average farmer farms in the South is hilly, rocky, and often laden with trees or tree stumps. These factors, combined with the fact that Ebolowa is really just out of the way from major ports, or the entire North (which is, in contrast, cultivatable by tractor), just emphasizes poor government planning.
Aside from the fact that I believe that this factory will likely lead to environmental issues, particularly polluted water (in an area where people still rely on untreated ground water), I also get more and more upset everyday by the fact that Ngalane is slowly becoming an industrial park. This is evidenced by the presence of increasing numbers of shipping containers filled with tractors littering the site of the Comice. And even though people farm past the grounds of the Comice, the tractor factory owners bought out the land where they are storing the shipping containers and have now put a gigantic fence around their newly acquired land. This means that my neighbors who used to be able to take short cuts directly through the site of the Comice are now forced to walk around the entire perimeter when most of the area inside is not even being used. And I don’t know who to be more angry at: the tractor assembly factory for not caring about the people who use the land, or my neighbors because they sold their land in the first place in order to have a really good Christmas 20 years ago.
But the reality is the tractor assembly factory is here and they are here to show off what they can do. There are several hectares of land that are flat and relatively free of tree stumps right by me. These fields are found on the Comice land, and are cleared of tree stumps because the government cleaned out the fields several decades ago in anticipation of the Comice. Now, post-Comice and in order to test the usefulness of the tractors, the tractors are sent out to clear a few hectares of land. But, instead of using the green manure from cut grasses to help fertilize the soil, they sent out manual labor to burn the piles of cut grasses. Then, they resend out the tractors to till the soil, which is now conveniently free of nutrients, and then they send out more manual labor to seed the site. It is so frustrating to watch the teams of men working together to make piles of dead grasses to burn. What is the point of a tractor, particularly in the 21st century, knowing what we know, if you’re going to interrupt its work with underpaid manual labor? Doesn’t anyone read? If you’re going to have the costs of tractor upkeep, you might as well get the most bang for your buck. Or you should probably just try something cool and innovative, like NOT burning the grasses, but rather using them as organic manure. In America, we talk about no-till farming, organic farming, niche farming. If Cameroonians with the capability to make large financial investments simply looked at trends in other parts of the world, I think worldviews could be transformed. Instead, they are just going to do something mediocre at best.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Motherland Calling
About a week and a half ago, my very faithful mother sent me a few articles from the MetroWest, a NY/NJ Jewish weekly. One of them was about Israeli’s work in Africa, and the other was about young Jews who don’t believe in God, but still believe in Judaism. I immediately connected with the second article about young Jews who don’t believe in God, particularly because here EVERYONE is religious and they always take it upon themselves to extol the virtues of Jesus and being saved. This kind of drives me insane, particularly because I’m a liberal American. “Hey, man, if you want to believe, that is up to you. Just do right by your mother.” However, my doctrine doesn’t really work here. Often times, before even learning your name, people will ask you, “Tu est quoi?” You are what, specifically referring to what church you belong to. Because “I am Lauren, I am an American,” doesn’t suffice as a response to this question, I’ve taken it upon myself to tell everyone that I’m a Jew. Now, as anyone who’s ever read the Erin and Lauren Do God blog can tell me, I’m a sceptic, a doubter among doubters, and I often use my Star of David only when it comes in handy (sometimes to make fun of the Jews or to make myself sound more responsible/serious than I am). But the beauty is that here I can use it all the time because no one’s ever met a Jew before. They all know we have been prosecuted throughout our history, so if anything, I think it makes Cameroonians like me more (they can identify with my people). And no one (except the Muslims) can really grasp the idea that I don’t believe that Jesus was our Messiah. It’s true, too, that I’m not really sure of this whole God thing, let alone the waiting for the Messiah, but I’ve never before in my life been more of a cultural Jew without even having the culture. The only Jew you meet can speak on behalf of all the Jews and still be correct. And since we’re the chosen people, well-educated, a minority, not white-bred, I’m happy to be the only Jew most Cameroonians will ever meet. At least now they know that Jews are hilarious.
The strange thing is that Saturday, while avoiding the wedding that was happening right next to my house (they were so proud to fight against tribalism in a marriage of Bulu with Bamoun), I ran into the director of an agricultural school that is right by my house. He invited me to this special reception of The Israelis who were coming to check out the ag school, to see what opportunities and constraints existed, and probably to do some ground truthing to make sure that the school actually exists. I wasn’t excited until I realized it was just a husband/wife couple who were actually interested in talking to me. After a very awkward ceremony dealing with language differences and cultural differences, I had a nice opportunity to talk to the husband, a guy who works with the Israeli Ministry of Agriculture, African development sector. It makes sense that Israel would want to invest in African agriculture. They know a lot about limited resources, they know all about war, and they need as many friends as they can get. Well, they have a friend in Cameroon, especially considering that the person in charge of country security (or something or other like that) was an Israeli, many people in agriculture here have studied in Israel or with the Israelis, and that the only coffee house in Yaounde is owned by Israelis. Anyway, it turned out to be a great networking opportunity for me and I might be able to send some women farmers to an agribusiness seminar for West Africa in February (totally cool). It was clear to me that this school (who has come knocking on my door looking for funding) was just looking for funding. They couldn’t care about the other cool things that the Israeli was talking to me about (counter-season production, specifically, to help with the fact that they’re cultivating in the rainforest), they were just excited about the connection and the possibility that they would get money from the Jews. Who have a lot of it, as we all know.
It was good to talk to this super-Jewish couple who kept using big Hebrew words that I didn’t know, like the one that refers to doing God’s work everyday. (Actually I realized I can only remember the words for “shut up please” and my name in Hebrew…) They reminded me that it is difficult to keep Kosher (tell me about it, and I don’t even try), that I am still a Jew even if I’m in Africa and that I need to visit the motherland. And I was reminded of how nice it is to be able to have an excuse to not go to church on Sunday.
The strange thing is that Saturday, while avoiding the wedding that was happening right next to my house (they were so proud to fight against tribalism in a marriage of Bulu with Bamoun), I ran into the director of an agricultural school that is right by my house. He invited me to this special reception of The Israelis who were coming to check out the ag school, to see what opportunities and constraints existed, and probably to do some ground truthing to make sure that the school actually exists. I wasn’t excited until I realized it was just a husband/wife couple who were actually interested in talking to me. After a very awkward ceremony dealing with language differences and cultural differences, I had a nice opportunity to talk to the husband, a guy who works with the Israeli Ministry of Agriculture, African development sector. It makes sense that Israel would want to invest in African agriculture. They know a lot about limited resources, they know all about war, and they need as many friends as they can get. Well, they have a friend in Cameroon, especially considering that the person in charge of country security (or something or other like that) was an Israeli, many people in agriculture here have studied in Israel or with the Israelis, and that the only coffee house in Yaounde is owned by Israelis. Anyway, it turned out to be a great networking opportunity for me and I might be able to send some women farmers to an agribusiness seminar for West Africa in February (totally cool). It was clear to me that this school (who has come knocking on my door looking for funding) was just looking for funding. They couldn’t care about the other cool things that the Israeli was talking to me about (counter-season production, specifically, to help with the fact that they’re cultivating in the rainforest), they were just excited about the connection and the possibility that they would get money from the Jews. Who have a lot of it, as we all know.
It was good to talk to this super-Jewish couple who kept using big Hebrew words that I didn’t know, like the one that refers to doing God’s work everyday. (Actually I realized I can only remember the words for “shut up please” and my name in Hebrew…) They reminded me that it is difficult to keep Kosher (tell me about it, and I don’t even try), that I am still a Jew even if I’m in Africa and that I need to visit the motherland. And I was reminded of how nice it is to be able to have an excuse to not go to church on Sunday.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
You did what with her what?!?!?!
I’ve recently made friends with Sharifa, a market mommy. She’s from the West like most successful market mommys, Foumban precisely, and she lives here in Ebolowa with her husband and daughter and other random family members. I’m not really sure we have all that much in common, and often we sit in silence watching her television when she invites me over to her house. It is really refreshing, however, to have an entrepreneur friend from the West because she doesn’t share the same habits as Southies and she always feeds me. And I think we both appreciate each other’s company and perspectives since we are both outsiders.
I will often ride my bike to the market and sit with her while she sells her dried and smoked fish. It is a habit that takes much getting used to, as the fish attracts obscene amounts of flies and always smells a little too fishy. Her neighbors in the market have become like another family for me, and we often greet each other as old friends. I enjoy people watching when I’m there. We always remark the pregnant 11 year olds, the women who got meningitis and no longer walk with 2 functioning legs, her friend who used to sell folere, a cold, sweet hibiscus tea, who recently married an old white man from France. The people watching is endless.
Last week while sitting with Sharifa and the muslim men from the North and other fat women from the West who sell onions, garlic, peanuts, beans, and dried maize, Sharifa pointed out a young woman who was wandering helplessly around the market. Her neighbor, a young muslim man, was apparently hiding from her. She teased him and got everyone else to join in. The reason that he was hiding from this young woman was, according to Sharifa, that they slept together and he put her very large breasts in his ears and now he is having hearing problems. Weird, huh?
This ties in with the known sorcery powers of Southerners. Southerners have very strong connections to sorcery. People say that you should never accept food from women who may be interested in your husband, because inevitably they are trying to get rid of you. You should never accept perfume as a present because someone is trying to seduce you with other sorcery scents they mixed in with the perfume (think “Love Potion #9). And apparently some women’s breasts have the power to make you somewhat deaf.
The weirdest part of this whole scenario was that the accused young woman came by and just stood looking over the young man she slept with. She knew that we were all talking about this weird story, and maybe she was just looking for some sort of apology or explanation from the very cowardly nordist, but his fear of her powers caused him to not even look over in her direction. He never even acknowledged her presence. Now, for me this is not ok. The poor girl slept with this young man and everyone knows, everyone is talking about it. She’s been accused of intentionally messing up his hearing, probably for no good reason or purely as a coincidence, and the guy can’t even look at her because he is too afraid of her powers. I felt bad for both involved parties and clearly I don’t know the whole story, but Ebolowa is a small city and she will likely be stigmatized for a long time.
I will often ride my bike to the market and sit with her while she sells her dried and smoked fish. It is a habit that takes much getting used to, as the fish attracts obscene amounts of flies and always smells a little too fishy. Her neighbors in the market have become like another family for me, and we often greet each other as old friends. I enjoy people watching when I’m there. We always remark the pregnant 11 year olds, the women who got meningitis and no longer walk with 2 functioning legs, her friend who used to sell folere, a cold, sweet hibiscus tea, who recently married an old white man from France. The people watching is endless.
Last week while sitting with Sharifa and the muslim men from the North and other fat women from the West who sell onions, garlic, peanuts, beans, and dried maize, Sharifa pointed out a young woman who was wandering helplessly around the market. Her neighbor, a young muslim man, was apparently hiding from her. She teased him and got everyone else to join in. The reason that he was hiding from this young woman was, according to Sharifa, that they slept together and he put her very large breasts in his ears and now he is having hearing problems. Weird, huh?
This ties in with the known sorcery powers of Southerners. Southerners have very strong connections to sorcery. People say that you should never accept food from women who may be interested in your husband, because inevitably they are trying to get rid of you. You should never accept perfume as a present because someone is trying to seduce you with other sorcery scents they mixed in with the perfume (think “Love Potion #9). And apparently some women’s breasts have the power to make you somewhat deaf.
The weirdest part of this whole scenario was that the accused young woman came by and just stood looking over the young man she slept with. She knew that we were all talking about this weird story, and maybe she was just looking for some sort of apology or explanation from the very cowardly nordist, but his fear of her powers caused him to not even look over in her direction. He never even acknowledged her presence. Now, for me this is not ok. The poor girl slept with this young man and everyone knows, everyone is talking about it. She’s been accused of intentionally messing up his hearing, probably for no good reason or purely as a coincidence, and the guy can’t even look at her because he is too afraid of her powers. I felt bad for both involved parties and clearly I don’t know the whole story, but Ebolowa is a small city and she will likely be stigmatized for a long time.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Le chanvre
I will never understand how Cameroonians can get some things so wrong. For example; le chanvre, or marijuana. Cameroon is a country full of people who love Bob Marley. They lovingly call small braids that hang from the head “les rastas!” with a voice so spunky you would think they have to love the Rastafarians. They wear their hippie red, green, yellow, and black woven hats, thinking that they could be none other than Cameroons colors. This is also a country that LOVES the bottle. Even the Muslims have been known to doctor their cokes with the 20 cent plastic “sachets” of single shot, low grade whiskey, vodka, rhum, or gin. They watch their brothers get violent on Christmas morning when, after having spent all evening blowing their yearly savings at the bar, they fight over one thing or another, sometimes ending with broken bottles in West-Side Story-style street fights.
Here is what I will never, ever be able to understand: how can every violent act in this country be attributed to marijuana use? I just saw my counterpart today, when he recounted to me a story of an 18 year old relative who threatened him and came after him with a machete, promising to kill him. In this discussion at the bar, I happened to suggest that maybe the 18 year old boy was mentally disturbed. To me, that sounds like a logical explanation, especially for an event that took place over an entire day. Everyone at the bar immediately refused my explanation, and they all, oddly enough, suggested that the boy had just gotten high from marijuana.
How does it happen that an entire country missed the widely well-known and well-accepted stereotype that people who are high from marijuana are, in fact, very apathetic, sometimes lazy, and generally peaceful? Do they not watch the movies or listen to the music? How, on earth, did acts of violence and aggression skip over the relationship with booze (which is consumed by absolutely everyone, from fetuses to babies, to children, teenagers, and adults), mental illness (possibly caused by alcohol consumption), general unhappiness in life or with society, and get nailed to the cross of marijuana use. Sorry, marijuana, but you’re going to have to carry the sins of all of society.
I have never had the talk with people here about the questionably well-recorded medicinal properties of marijuana, or the discussion of whether or not it should be lifted from a criminal offense in certain states in America to possess. I am even afraid to try to convince people that their stereotype of violent marijuana smokers is way off mark because I fear being labeled as one of “them.” I don’t even know how to suggest that the boy who tried to kill Serges should probably be evaluated for mental illness, instead of being labeled as a “them.” And how did alcohol get off scot-free?
Marijuana is a scape-goat for many problems in Cameroon, which leaves the greater societal problems left untouched. Perhaps if violence in the home and on the street and general low mental development was more attributed to alcohol consumption, fewer parents would feed their babies beer or whiskey.
Here is what I will never, ever be able to understand: how can every violent act in this country be attributed to marijuana use? I just saw my counterpart today, when he recounted to me a story of an 18 year old relative who threatened him and came after him with a machete, promising to kill him. In this discussion at the bar, I happened to suggest that maybe the 18 year old boy was mentally disturbed. To me, that sounds like a logical explanation, especially for an event that took place over an entire day. Everyone at the bar immediately refused my explanation, and they all, oddly enough, suggested that the boy had just gotten high from marijuana.
How does it happen that an entire country missed the widely well-known and well-accepted stereotype that people who are high from marijuana are, in fact, very apathetic, sometimes lazy, and generally peaceful? Do they not watch the movies or listen to the music? How, on earth, did acts of violence and aggression skip over the relationship with booze (which is consumed by absolutely everyone, from fetuses to babies, to children, teenagers, and adults), mental illness (possibly caused by alcohol consumption), general unhappiness in life or with society, and get nailed to the cross of marijuana use. Sorry, marijuana, but you’re going to have to carry the sins of all of society.
I have never had the talk with people here about the questionably well-recorded medicinal properties of marijuana, or the discussion of whether or not it should be lifted from a criminal offense in certain states in America to possess. I am even afraid to try to convince people that their stereotype of violent marijuana smokers is way off mark because I fear being labeled as one of “them.” I don’t even know how to suggest that the boy who tried to kill Serges should probably be evaluated for mental illness, instead of being labeled as a “them.” And how did alcohol get off scot-free?
Marijuana is a scape-goat for many problems in Cameroon, which leaves the greater societal problems left untouched. Perhaps if violence in the home and on the street and general low mental development was more attributed to alcohol consumption, fewer parents would feed their babies beer or whiskey.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
2nd class
As I tried to find a state of sleepiness, I thought to myself, “How the hell did I get here?” It was really when the man who was possibly pretending to be blind, probing the floor in front of him with an oversized walking stick, stood on my hair that I realized I have really come down a few notches in society.
Many volunteers will pay the small fortune of 50 dollars one way, or approximately a third of our monthly stipend round trip to pay for a couchette, a sleeper bunk on the train running between Yaounde, the capital in the grand South, and Ngaoundere, the first major city in the grand North, for the 14 to 24 hour train ride. Other volunteers prefer to save 30 bucks round trip and pay for a first class seat, what I’ve been told is equivalent to an airplane seat. I, on the other hand, decided that it would be more important to buy lots of meat and leather products in my brief stay up north, so I convinced Amanda to ride the 2nd class with me. There are lots of mysteries surrounding the 2nd class among volunteers. This is probably because most volunteers who travel up North have heard terrible stories about the 2nd class. I know this is true because the day before I took the train, PC admin proceeded to tell me horror stories about people with knives at the stations, thieves, bandits, etc… And they assumed I was riding 1st class.
What does it mean to ride 2nd class? First, one must ask the question, “What does it mean to be a 2nd class citizen?” To buy the ticket, you have to get up very early to wait on line for several hours. Fortunately, this experience is orderly, if not pleasant. This is likely because men in outfits with guns (politely referred to as “gendarmes”) tell you how to follow the line. No line cutters here! With ticket in hand in the late afternoon, you can enter the train and try to find your seat. Good luck! Not only are the seat numbers all out of order, but the cars themselves are not in order. Assuming you eventually find your seat, there is a small chance you will find that someone else shares this same seat number with you. That makes for a fun 14 hour trip! And you can just pray that your small bag finds a space in the overhead luggage rack. After sitting in your seat for an hour waiting for the train to leave the station, call to prayer happens, and just before sunset, the train is off!
So, who are your neighbors? If you’re lucky, they are nice Muslims from the North; calm, gentle, generous. There is a chance your neighbor is a bandit, so good luck sleeping in the upright position and being vigilant with your belongings. But early on in the trip is a good time to make friends, so you offer your neighbors biscuits and a sip from your alcoholic beverage to help the seemingly endless 14 hours pass by. Riding the 2nd class is the same experience as sitting at the bus station in Cameroon; People walk around selling all sorts of things you could possibly never need like Chinese medicines, biscuits and candy, pop and water, baton de manioc, honey, crossword puzzles, books on how to use the internet, market bags, etc. They all shout as they walk past, to get attention and to be heard over the rumbling of the train, and their voices are deafening as they pass by you. Because you’re in a moving vehicle filled with people, your defense mechanism is to sleep, so about 2 hours after the train starts moving, you get sleepy. If you’re lucky enough to be traveling with someone you know, you can sit across from them and put your feet up on their seat, since the leg room is insufficient. After some time and several times during the night and into the morning, the conductor comes through and checks your ticket or gendarmes demand to see your identity card.
It is usually around midnight that your neck and knees start to hurt. This is when you’re forced to decide how you will spend the rest of the night: suffering in the upright position, or competing with other people willing to get dirty for floor space. Since I brought a travel towel for this very purpose, I laid my towel in the aisle, and squeezed myself as far into the supporting bars of the seats as I could, caching myself under seats in the defensive turtle position in anticipation that clumsy people will walk by. This was far from comfortable, but at least it gave my knees a temporary break. And this is how I spent half my night, on and off, until 5 am.
Traveling as “the people” travel really sucks. It really sucks to be “the people,” the 2nd class citizens of this country, and it is amazing to be an elite, one of the few who can afford the one hour flight from the Extreme North (by land, a 14 hr train ride plus a 10 hr bus ride). Since all white people are wealthy (I like to say that Cameroonians all are convinced I am Donald Trump’s niece), a white woman sleeping in the aisle of a moving train obviously catches a lot of attention. It was far from comfortable, and we had all the luck that the train didn’t break down, but I can honestly say it wasn’t a bad experience. While there were a few people (as there always are) who were disdainful of a “wealthy white” getting the villageoise (villager) experience for the sake of “going tribal” or better understanding this side of the world, most of our neighbors seemed glad to share their car with two Americans who were, in all honesty, too cheap to pay for a better ride.
Many volunteers will pay the small fortune of 50 dollars one way, or approximately a third of our monthly stipend round trip to pay for a couchette, a sleeper bunk on the train running between Yaounde, the capital in the grand South, and Ngaoundere, the first major city in the grand North, for the 14 to 24 hour train ride. Other volunteers prefer to save 30 bucks round trip and pay for a first class seat, what I’ve been told is equivalent to an airplane seat. I, on the other hand, decided that it would be more important to buy lots of meat and leather products in my brief stay up north, so I convinced Amanda to ride the 2nd class with me. There are lots of mysteries surrounding the 2nd class among volunteers. This is probably because most volunteers who travel up North have heard terrible stories about the 2nd class. I know this is true because the day before I took the train, PC admin proceeded to tell me horror stories about people with knives at the stations, thieves, bandits, etc… And they assumed I was riding 1st class.
What does it mean to ride 2nd class? First, one must ask the question, “What does it mean to be a 2nd class citizen?” To buy the ticket, you have to get up very early to wait on line for several hours. Fortunately, this experience is orderly, if not pleasant. This is likely because men in outfits with guns (politely referred to as “gendarmes”) tell you how to follow the line. No line cutters here! With ticket in hand in the late afternoon, you can enter the train and try to find your seat. Good luck! Not only are the seat numbers all out of order, but the cars themselves are not in order. Assuming you eventually find your seat, there is a small chance you will find that someone else shares this same seat number with you. That makes for a fun 14 hour trip! And you can just pray that your small bag finds a space in the overhead luggage rack. After sitting in your seat for an hour waiting for the train to leave the station, call to prayer happens, and just before sunset, the train is off!
So, who are your neighbors? If you’re lucky, they are nice Muslims from the North; calm, gentle, generous. There is a chance your neighbor is a bandit, so good luck sleeping in the upright position and being vigilant with your belongings. But early on in the trip is a good time to make friends, so you offer your neighbors biscuits and a sip from your alcoholic beverage to help the seemingly endless 14 hours pass by. Riding the 2nd class is the same experience as sitting at the bus station in Cameroon; People walk around selling all sorts of things you could possibly never need like Chinese medicines, biscuits and candy, pop and water, baton de manioc, honey, crossword puzzles, books on how to use the internet, market bags, etc. They all shout as they walk past, to get attention and to be heard over the rumbling of the train, and their voices are deafening as they pass by you. Because you’re in a moving vehicle filled with people, your defense mechanism is to sleep, so about 2 hours after the train starts moving, you get sleepy. If you’re lucky enough to be traveling with someone you know, you can sit across from them and put your feet up on their seat, since the leg room is insufficient. After some time and several times during the night and into the morning, the conductor comes through and checks your ticket or gendarmes demand to see your identity card.
It is usually around midnight that your neck and knees start to hurt. This is when you’re forced to decide how you will spend the rest of the night: suffering in the upright position, or competing with other people willing to get dirty for floor space. Since I brought a travel towel for this very purpose, I laid my towel in the aisle, and squeezed myself as far into the supporting bars of the seats as I could, caching myself under seats in the defensive turtle position in anticipation that clumsy people will walk by. This was far from comfortable, but at least it gave my knees a temporary break. And this is how I spent half my night, on and off, until 5 am.
Traveling as “the people” travel really sucks. It really sucks to be “the people,” the 2nd class citizens of this country, and it is amazing to be an elite, one of the few who can afford the one hour flight from the Extreme North (by land, a 14 hr train ride plus a 10 hr bus ride). Since all white people are wealthy (I like to say that Cameroonians all are convinced I am Donald Trump’s niece), a white woman sleeping in the aisle of a moving train obviously catches a lot of attention. It was far from comfortable, and we had all the luck that the train didn’t break down, but I can honestly say it wasn’t a bad experience. While there were a few people (as there always are) who were disdainful of a “wealthy white” getting the villageoise (villager) experience for the sake of “going tribal” or better understanding this side of the world, most of our neighbors seemed glad to share their car with two Americans who were, in all honesty, too cheap to pay for a better ride.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
What Cameroonians don’t understand about dogs
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).
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).
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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