Today ends up being a bit of a prep day for the last week of school- I have decided to finish on Thursday. This gives me a bit of time to take in a few of the local sights. I had hoped to go to Korup or Waza National Park, but time will not be sufficient.
There's no SOW today due to Bitingini kids' lack of attendance. The UAC co-ordinator visits the village to discuss the problem with the new Chief. Instead, I wander off to the "Cyberspace", finally dragging myself off after dark. I make it back home for my usual cold bucket shower and a bite to eat.
The evening is finished by C and I exchanging ghost stories. She has a couple of good ones, most notably one where she was followed by two phantom wood collectors in the forest. My main one is the Spine chilling tale of a truckload of tourists and a disturbed Baobab tree in Western Africa. A very true story I can assure you. If you haven't heard it yet, I'll need to bore you with it next time I see you.
Random local word or saying of the day: "Masah."
Translation: "Mr."
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sweet Surrender
Arriving back at Mile 17 bus station in Buea almost marks the end of our journey. We negotiate the small matter of a taxi up to Town, just as day is breaking. It's with great satisfaction that I crawl into bed for a few hours rest, and I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.
Four hours later, I feel like a new man. Sunday is surely a day of rest today, and after a leisurely breakfast, I stroll down to the Town for some writing and S Sports on the TV- good to see you again Mr Gary Bailey. It's been a few years. I meet Dennis, a Cameroon man, now residing in Leicester. Despite being a Chelsea season ticket holder, he's good value and it's a bit strange talking to someone else living in the UK. I haven't spoken to anyone else from HQ since I arrived here. In between whoops of delight as Chelsea crush Arsenal (it must be wintertime), he lets me know that he is married to the daughter of the former Cameroon Prime Minister, or whatnot, by the name of Achilly Achoo. I might be wrong, but surely that name is completely ficticious!
Back up at the house for dinner, C and I discuss the events of the last two days. I learn that the chief was paid a considerable sum for the bride's hand (she's not even his daughter). Even the bride was paid a considerable sum for the bride's hand- it's the groom who paid her too! The chief also received some palm nut oil, 10 crates of beer, and some vegetables. I haven't even mentioned the groom's name- John Kennedy, an incredibly friendly chap, who, for the record, does not have the middle name of Fitzgerald.
I also find out the name of the singer who was played on a continual loop all of last night. I will never ever forget that voice. She is a Nigerian woman called Agatha Moses. In a perverse sort of way, I found myself humming her music today. However, this statement is not going to stop me locating her house, playing a trumpet under her window, whilst somehow, concurrently rattling her window with a stick. In the morning, she will be fed broken JJ records for breakfast. As C so aptly put it this evening: "The trip back was a sort of punishment."
Four hours later, I feel like a new man. Sunday is surely a day of rest today, and after a leisurely breakfast, I stroll down to the Town for some writing and S Sports on the TV- good to see you again Mr Gary Bailey. It's been a few years. I meet Dennis, a Cameroon man, now residing in Leicester. Despite being a Chelsea season ticket holder, he's good value and it's a bit strange talking to someone else living in the UK. I haven't spoken to anyone else from HQ since I arrived here. In between whoops of delight as Chelsea crush Arsenal (it must be wintertime), he lets me know that he is married to the daughter of the former Cameroon Prime Minister, or whatnot, by the name of Achilly Achoo. I might be wrong, but surely that name is completely ficticious!
Back up at the house for dinner, C and I discuss the events of the last two days. I learn that the chief was paid a considerable sum for the bride's hand (she's not even his daughter). Even the bride was paid a considerable sum for the bride's hand- it's the groom who paid her too! The chief also received some palm nut oil, 10 crates of beer, and some vegetables. I haven't even mentioned the groom's name- John Kennedy, an incredibly friendly chap, who, for the record, does not have the middle name of Fitzgerald.
I also find out the name of the singer who was played on a continual loop all of last night. I will never ever forget that voice. She is a Nigerian woman called Agatha Moses. In a perverse sort of way, I found myself humming her music today. However, this statement is not going to stop me locating her house, playing a trumpet under her window, whilst somehow, concurrently rattling her window with a stick. In the morning, she will be fed broken JJ records for breakfast. As C so aptly put it this evening: "The trip back was a sort of punishment."
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Set Down Your Glass
We disembark the bus and immediately enter a taxi for the 19km journey to Bali. It's a squeeze with seven people inside, plus lugguage. We meet the chief of the bride's family, a very elderly 
statesman like gentleman by the name of Mr Scott. After a spot of breakfast and a light nap, myself and Ngo motorbike it up to the Presbyterian Church crafts centre. The shops is closed over the weekend, but a very affable man, who just happens to be standing nearby, takes us on an informal tour of people making goods. We even visit a few houses to look at goods that are for sale today. Ngo uses the opportunity to buys some maracas. We also take up the chance to look over the valley to the highway winding it's way in to the distance. This leads to nearby Nigeria, and is a major route for goods, both licit and illicit, entering Cameroon.
We also visit the Fon's palace. When we arrive, we take a seat just outside whilst we arrange a guide. It is customary in these parts to clap three times when someone enters the room and joins you in sitting down. Those present duly do so for us. Myself and Ngo enjoy a short but highly interesting tour of the palace and the area's unique history. We even get to see the Fon, standing across the other side of the courtyard, staring at a computer, with a bemused look on his face. I told you it wouldn't be Henry Winkler. Instead, he's a middle aged man with glasses, and obtaining an audience with him is not as straightforward as I was led to believe. The Fon does indeed have a German wife, but she only seems to have a part-time role, being in the country a couple of times each year.
We manage a quick Malta Guiness, and a mouthful of the local palm wine (which smells suspiciously of rotten pickled onions, if that's possible). The wine is quite palatable, tasting considerably better than it smells. It's then back to the Chief's compound where we chat and generally relax, waiting for the afternoon festivities to commence.
The area of Bamenda/ Bali is a good six hour's drive from Buea and is noticeably cooler here. It was great last night coming off the bus and stepping into the cold dawn air. A fresh wind blows today across scenary that is generally more undulating than the southern coast, with a considerable number of hillocks, or kops. I'm informed that the rainy season here is almost the exact opposite to the south of the country.
The whole purpose of this visit is for the families of the soon to be weds to get to know each other better. It's as simple as that, and the following events turn out to be a great success. The groom's family congregate in the Chief's lounge, and we await the arrival of the bride and her entourage. In seems reminsicent of before, the bride finally enters an already packed room with her head covered by a partly unfolded tablecloth. Tradition demands that she is coaxed out by pleasentaries, and some cash.
With her unveiling, two or three members of each family make some speeches and generally work the crowd. C is in the thick of it again. Finally, a member of each family introduces the rest of their family to everybody present. To my surprise I get introduced as one of the family members. John (or as my namesake- bohmbow) introduces me as "John from Germany!". C quickly corrects this and, then I come forward to say my full name and origin. I recieve a rather generous round of applause, and, dare I say it, even a small cheer. With this done, Bohmbow also takes his seat, and as he does so, "Scotland The Brave" starts playing on his phone. Yes, note it wasn't "Deutschland Uber Alles!"
We then walk out to the arranged tented area, where we are served food and drink. There is quite a crowd gathered by this point, and many of the women get up for a dance to the really energetic music pounding from the speakers. Everyone gets a beer, and a satchet of "Jocker" Whisky, which strangely has a lion on the front. This leads me to a state of ambivalence, attempting to determine whether it's trying to be passed off as genuine scotch or not. There's also "Pink Flamingo" wine on the go, which keeps appearing to land at C's feet.
We are all a little conscious of leaving on time for the bus back, and, as is often the case with such events, the party winds up very early- about 8ish. I go inside to change my shorts and by the time I come back, it's all prety much over. We say our thanks to Mr Scott, who's still sitting rather serenely in his chair. We're off again!
The bus station at Bamenda is a lively place. Time affords me the chance to get some supplies for the journey, and, tickets in hand, we board the bus. A short straw is also in my hand- I have a middle seat. With the music cranking up to the "are you serious?" level, I have a weird premonition that sleep will be the impossible dream.
Driving through the highway towns, you can't fail to notice just what a hub of activities such places are. There are sellers of everything here, particularly food, working right through the night. They mob any bus that stops for even a split second, thrusting all kinds of things in your direction. Taking all this in, I turn to see C wrestling two pineapples and some carrots from a defeated seller's hands. If things get really bad, I still have the "Jocker" whisky in my back pocket.
Sitting on the bus, unable to get a wink of sleep, I reflect on the last two days. It was a great experience to go on this trip. With two night buses, I knew I was never going to see much of the landscape (or get much sleep!) but, overall it was definitely worth it.
statesman like gentleman by the name of Mr Scott. After a spot of breakfast and a light nap, myself and Ngo motorbike it up to the Presbyterian Church crafts centre. The shops is closed over the weekend, but a very affable man, who just happens to be standing nearby, takes us on an informal tour of people making goods. We even visit a few houses to look at goods that are for sale today. Ngo uses the opportunity to buys some maracas. We also take up the chance to look over the valley to the highway winding it's way in to the distance. This leads to nearby Nigeria, and is a major route for goods, both licit and illicit, entering Cameroon.We also visit the Fon's palace. When we arrive, we take a seat just outside whilst we arrange a guide. It is customary in these parts to clap three times when someone enters the room and joins you in sitting down. Those present duly do so for us. Myself and Ngo enjoy a short but highly interesting tour of the palace and the area's unique history. We even get to see the Fon, standing across the other side of the courtyard, staring at a computer, with a bemused look on his face. I told you it wouldn't be Henry Winkler. Instead, he's a middle aged man with glasses, and obtaining an audience with him is not as straightforward as I was led to believe. The Fon does indeed have a German wife, but she only seems to have a part-time role, being in the country a couple of times each year.
We manage a quick Malta Guiness, and a mouthful of the local palm wine (which smells suspiciously of rotten pickled onions, if that's possible). The wine is quite palatable, tasting considerably better than it smells. It's then back to the Chief's compound where we chat and generally relax, waiting for the afternoon festivities to commence.
The area of Bamenda/ Bali is a good six hour's drive from Buea and is noticeably cooler here. It was great last night coming off the bus and stepping into the cold dawn air. A fresh wind blows today across scenary that is generally more undulating than the southern coast, with a considerable number of hillocks, or kops. I'm informed that the rainy season here is almost the exact opposite to the south of the country.
The whole purpose of this visit is for the families of the soon to be weds to get to know each other better. It's as simple as that, and the following events turn out to be a great success. The groom's family congregate in the Chief's lounge, and we await the arrival of the bride and her entourage. In seems reminsicent of before, the bride finally enters an already packed room with her head covered by a partly unfolded tablecloth. Tradition demands that she is coaxed out by pleasentaries, and some cash.
With her unveiling, two or three members of each family make some speeches and generally work the crowd. C is in the thick of it again. Finally, a member of each family introduces the rest of their family to everybody present. To my surprise I get introduced as one of the family members. John (or as my namesake- bohmbow) introduces me as "John from Germany!". C quickly corrects this and, then I come forward to say my full name and origin. I recieve a rather generous round of applause, and, dare I say it, even a small cheer. With this done, Bohmbow also takes his seat, and as he does so, "Scotland The Brave" starts playing on his phone. Yes, note it wasn't "Deutschland Uber Alles!"
We then walk out to the arranged tented area, where we are served food and drink. There is quite a crowd gathered by this point, and many of the women get up for a dance to the really energetic music pounding from the speakers. Everyone gets a beer, and a satchet of "Jocker" Whisky, which strangely has a lion on the front. This leads me to a state of ambivalence, attempting to determine whether it's trying to be passed off as genuine scotch or not. There's also "Pink Flamingo" wine on the go, which keeps appearing to land at C's feet.
We are all a little conscious of leaving on time for the bus back, and, as is often the case with such events, the party winds up very early- about 8ish. I go inside to change my shorts and by the time I come back, it's all prety much over. We say our thanks to Mr Scott, who's still sitting rather serenely in his chair. We're off again!
The bus station at Bamenda is a lively place. Time affords me the chance to get some supplies for the journey, and, tickets in hand, we board the bus. A short straw is also in my hand- I have a middle seat. With the music cranking up to the "are you serious?" level, I have a weird premonition that sleep will be the impossible dream.
Driving through the highway towns, you can't fail to notice just what a hub of activities such places are. There are sellers of everything here, particularly food, working right through the night. They mob any bus that stops for even a split second, thrusting all kinds of things in your direction. Taking all this in, I turn to see C wrestling two pineapples and some carrots from a defeated seller's hands. If things get really bad, I still have the "Jocker" whisky in my back pocket.
Sitting on the bus, unable to get a wink of sleep, I reflect on the last two days. It was a great experience to go on this trip. With two night buses, I knew I was never going to see much of the landscape (or get much sleep!) but, overall it was definitely worth it.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Quadra-pop
It's a local holiday today, so school and SOW are both cancelled. After a fine lie in, I taxi downtown to get some new books from "Books 'n' Things" and do a spot of "cyberspacing". It's a bit of wasted trip, as the power goes off just as I sit down to log-on, and Matthias from the book shop has disappeared, with the store's contents now being travel goods!! I ask the owner about Matthias' whereabouts, and it is with some reticence that she murmurs something about him being somewhere else. Most peculiar.
Back in Town, I bump into a local rasta dude, who I keep seeming to meet. He takes me to his craft shop/house to show me some of his handmade souveniers. It turns out to be a stone's throw from C's house, and as we enter it, he goes straight over to put some music on. For one awful moment, his hand hovers over the CD at the top of the pile- Jack Johnson!! Fortuitously, he puts on some reggae music, which isn't even Bob Marley.
The rest of the afternoon is spent enjoying a tremendous book, and packing my small bag. There's a nasty little rumour circulating that the bus will have a TV.
Onboard TV+ night bus= one seriously depressed tourist.
I've taken my best earplugs just in case. I am also wearing "proper" footwear for the first time in exactly 50 days! Surely this is a record that will never be beaten, unless I become a castaway on some desert island (hopefully one warmer than Orkney in December).
At 7.30pm, we leave and congregate on the street, being joined by four other members of the family. The others are: the groom's mother, sister (Anna) and John, brother of groom's deceased father. I spend some time talking with John. He's a really nice chap and a retired army sergeant of many years. It's traditional that John takes the place of his dead brother in such formal roles, and he does a fine job. Anna is a teacher trainer at the college and is very passionate and at times, quite saddened, by the state of education in her country. She believes that many of the western concepts brought over to Africa simply can't work along side African traditions. It's hard to argue with this opinion. Anna also tells me a story about kids learning to sing a song called "Mr Postman" in school. Well, Buea (and I'm guessing nearly all of Cameroon) don't have postmen who deliver letters, so how can kids really understand what it all means?! Now "Bingo, the farmer's dog", now that's a different matter entirely.
We meet up with Ngo, the unofficial photographer of the event. Our departure is only one hour late. Those who have been in Africa will know buses go when they are full, not at a certain time. We end up going in convoy, due to potential banditry, with our bus top roof light flashing. My delight at a distinct lack of TV is short lived when the ridiculously loud and ridiculously fast gospel music begins. We get a break for some reason between 2-4 am, and i manage to doze a little. Being able to sleep on a bus with rattling windows, and booming music is an art form I have still to master. As we dismount, a woman behind me declares: "Wonderful journey. Wonderful journey." Wonderful journey! It is in the sense that it has finished, and we have actually made it to Bamenda.
Back in Town, I bump into a local rasta dude, who I keep seeming to meet. He takes me to his craft shop/house to show me some of his handmade souveniers. It turns out to be a stone's throw from C's house, and as we enter it, he goes straight over to put some music on. For one awful moment, his hand hovers over the CD at the top of the pile- Jack Johnson!! Fortuitously, he puts on some reggae music, which isn't even Bob Marley.
The rest of the afternoon is spent enjoying a tremendous book, and packing my small bag. There's a nasty little rumour circulating that the bus will have a TV.
Onboard TV+ night bus= one seriously depressed tourist.
I've taken my best earplugs just in case. I am also wearing "proper" footwear for the first time in exactly 50 days! Surely this is a record that will never be beaten, unless I become a castaway on some desert island (hopefully one warmer than Orkney in December).
At 7.30pm, we leave and congregate on the street, being joined by four other members of the family. The others are: the groom's mother, sister (Anna) and John, brother of groom's deceased father. I spend some time talking with John. He's a really nice chap and a retired army sergeant of many years. It's traditional that John takes the place of his dead brother in such formal roles, and he does a fine job. Anna is a teacher trainer at the college and is very passionate and at times, quite saddened, by the state of education in her country. She believes that many of the western concepts brought over to Africa simply can't work along side African traditions. It's hard to argue with this opinion. Anna also tells me a story about kids learning to sing a song called "Mr Postman" in school. Well, Buea (and I'm guessing nearly all of Cameroon) don't have postmen who deliver letters, so how can kids really understand what it all means?! Now "Bingo, the farmer's dog", now that's a different matter entirely.
We meet up with Ngo, the unofficial photographer of the event. Our departure is only one hour late. Those who have been in Africa will know buses go when they are full, not at a certain time. We end up going in convoy, due to potential banditry, with our bus top roof light flashing. My delight at a distinct lack of TV is short lived when the ridiculously loud and ridiculously fast gospel music begins. We get a break for some reason between 2-4 am, and i manage to doze a little. Being able to sleep on a bus with rattling windows, and booming music is an art form I have still to master. As we dismount, a woman behind me declares: "Wonderful journey. Wonderful journey." Wonderful journey! It is in the sense that it has finished, and we have actually made it to Bamenda.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sayuri
It must be "National Pick On Taxi Drivers Day" today. There is often a police presence with regards to taxi. It's quite common and usual for many to be randomly stopped at checkpoints, and anywhere else, but the last few days have definitely seen an increase in this activity. Taxi drivers are constituted by a whole range of different characters. The job is one that many turn to when they can't find any other, and desperate people often do desperate things. Two local girls were taken by a taxi to a local plantation and attacked just the other day. My taxi gets stopped this morning and pulled over for sometime. I finally give up and hail another one. The walks to school from my drop-off point have become a regular occurrence, with the bus only occasional being empty enough for me to hop on. It's good exercise and surely gives me a chance to burn off some of this Palm nut oil that so much of the local food is cooked in.
I take Etonde again today. I also take some of the less able kids from another class 2 today during long break. Flashcards are awesome. A prolonged teacher's meeting in the afternoon leaves all of the children without any lessons. I set up an impromptu reading class in the workshop, getting through "The Three Little Pigs"and "Paddington and the Rainbow Knickerbocker Glory". Kids here just don't read and don't seem to be encouraged to read very much. There is good news on the horizon- the school is to get it's library. Clearly, this is an important step.
I witness a gaggle of officials from last week's coronation as I walk home from school. All the kingmakers and a number of the chiefs are also sitting outside Bitingi's new HRH's residence. The Cameroon flag flies proudly to show that the chief is in residence. Don't quite know what the occasion is. Maybe he is still opening his presents. A few of the locals recognise me as the token white from the crowd, and I even get greeted by the mad looking, drugged up witch doctor. No gun this time, thankfully.
SOW takes us to Bokwai. I end up with the dream student today, and we go over the old HTUs- hundreds, tens, and units. It's another one of those things that unexpectedly takes me back longer than I care to remember. HTUs complete, it's on to the times tables and another convert to a new way of counting.
One of the volunteers needs to fill about a million bottles of water at the well today for their three day expedition to the mountain top tomorrow. There's 25 German workers from all over Cameroon going. And Shun. Should be quite a trip. With all this preparation taking place, I decide to walk home.
The pace of life begins to ease at this time of the day. Any daytime breeze has disappeared, as has the heat of before. The roadside Bull rushes sit perfectly still, only occasionally ruffled by a passing motor car or pedestrian carrying empty sacks from the market, or full containers of water from the well. The rush of schoolchildren and people working is but a distant memory. The insects have started their evening chorus, and an overwhelming feeling of tranquility has veiled itself across the land. The irridescence of the sky is startling. Apart from a tiny patch of blue sky, it is a stunning fiery orange, bathing everything it touches. Swirls of the most vivid colours appear to begin from the mountain and drift over to be absorbed by the rest of the heavens, creating a sea of intensity.
African skies can be quite brilliant.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Laughing Like A Fool
Curse those 4.45 bells!
Catherine greets me at the breakfast table this morning with a rousing rendition of "Bingo, the farmer's dog"- an old (and very catchy) school song from many a year ago. I might sing it on the way to school today.
School is going well. I take Etonde for some language and reading classes in the workshop. The local teacher is a helpful young man and is more than happy for me to do so. It's a thought to think I will be finishing here very soon, probably within the next seven days. I am trying to maximise my time here for what remains.
On the way back from school, I stop off at my country local for a quick beer. I regret to inform you that the Castel beer promotion has ended. The silver lining of this particular cloud is a change of promotion from their beer to their stout. I give it a go, and have instant success. It's not oodles of cash or the star prize of a Toyota ATV that I win, but another beer. I tapped on the bottle three times in front of the owner and told her I would win. She just laughed.
Champion's league night tonight, but instead of a bar, it's a TV shop. My money exchanger has invited me to sit with his friends and take in the game They are a real bunch of characters and certainly should be the regulars of a pub somewhere. In actual fact, the only thing that is a part of a bar in tonight's proceedings are the chairs from next doors joint, which we have unashamedly stolen. Nobody really seems to mind.
I spend some lengthy time with C tonight. It's been a while since we have both been around simultaneously. She informs me that she participated in a beer throwing ceremony this evening. It's sounds like a total waste, but, apparently, it's part of the local tradition. It precedes one of the departed's children getting married. The family gather around the grave with a beer and pour the first and the last of the bottle on to the hallowed ground. The drink is is then passed around those present and everybody takes a sip, before the last part is thrown down. As the ceremony occurs, everybody prays to their ancestors that the new couple may enjoy a successful union and bright future together. In this case, the family concerned is the one we are travelling with to Bamenda to meet the "other side". I met the groom yesterday. He's another cheery looking chap.
The main conversation of the evening, revolves around the Bamenda trip. I discover that we are going to meet the "Fons". It's not going to be the bizarre character from "Happy Days" though. Instead, it is a small distinguished group of infamous and powerful chiefs from the nearby area. Each one can have up to 30 wives, which he has simply chosen without anyone else's agreement. No getting down on one knee here. The particular Fon we are going to see is interestingly married to a German woman. I'm not sure what number she is. I find their marriage quite intriguing.
All that is required now is for me to find some clean clothes and c to locate where she has put all her pants.
Random local word or saying of today: "Last night, I slept with my shoes on."
Translation: "Last night, I got very drunk."
Catherine greets me at the breakfast table this morning with a rousing rendition of "Bingo, the farmer's dog"- an old (and very catchy) school song from many a year ago. I might sing it on the way to school today.
School is going well. I take Etonde for some language and reading classes in the workshop. The local teacher is a helpful young man and is more than happy for me to do so. It's a thought to think I will be finishing here very soon, probably within the next seven days. I am trying to maximise my time here for what remains.
On the way back from school, I stop off at my country local for a quick beer. I regret to inform you that the Castel beer promotion has ended. The silver lining of this particular cloud is a change of promotion from their beer to their stout. I give it a go, and have instant success. It's not oodles of cash or the star prize of a Toyota ATV that I win, but another beer. I tapped on the bottle three times in front of the owner and told her I would win. She just laughed.
Champion's league night tonight, but instead of a bar, it's a TV shop. My money exchanger has invited me to sit with his friends and take in the game They are a real bunch of characters and certainly should be the regulars of a pub somewhere. In actual fact, the only thing that is a part of a bar in tonight's proceedings are the chairs from next doors joint, which we have unashamedly stolen. Nobody really seems to mind.
I spend some lengthy time with C tonight. It's been a while since we have both been around simultaneously. She informs me that she participated in a beer throwing ceremony this evening. It's sounds like a total waste, but, apparently, it's part of the local tradition. It precedes one of the departed's children getting married. The family gather around the grave with a beer and pour the first and the last of the bottle on to the hallowed ground. The drink is is then passed around those present and everybody takes a sip, before the last part is thrown down. As the ceremony occurs, everybody prays to their ancestors that the new couple may enjoy a successful union and bright future together. In this case, the family concerned is the one we are travelling with to Bamenda to meet the "other side". I met the groom yesterday. He's another cheery looking chap.
The main conversation of the evening, revolves around the Bamenda trip. I discover that we are going to meet the "Fons". It's not going to be the bizarre character from "Happy Days" though. Instead, it is a small distinguished group of infamous and powerful chiefs from the nearby area. Each one can have up to 30 wives, which he has simply chosen without anyone else's agreement. No getting down on one knee here. The particular Fon we are going to see is interestingly married to a German woman. I'm not sure what number she is. I find their marriage quite intriguing.
All that is required now is for me to find some clean clothes and c to locate where she has put all her pants.
Random local word or saying of today: "Last night, I slept with my shoes on."
Translation: "Last night, I got very drunk."
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Anglophone, Francophone, Dialaphone
C has returned from her hedonistic few days! She informs me that she's had a great time, and I believe her. It's good to see her back. She's a very good hostess and knows how to treat her guests. However, I imagine she can be a very formidable adversary, and certainly has a reputation in Town for being extremely hardworking. She is more than capable of shooting a look that could open an oyster from 50 paces.
Plans for our visit to Bamenda continue to gather a pace. It's not a wedding at all. More a sort of come and visit the new people coming in to the family (the in-laws). So far, I have established that the area has the biggest supply of hash the sub-Saharan side of Marrakesh, and local people there traditionally refused to shake hands with white people, less they caught fire. There's obviously some setting fire to things issues needing to be resolved. All will be revealed in due course..
School today goes quite well, undertaking a reading comprehension for the senior classes. The school is ever changing presently. There are some major building works planned shortly, and there are always pictures, and play things such as hopscotch, a long jump pit, and even a small football pitch under development. If I came back in six months, I'd probably have to go back out and check the number on the door.
The "Schools on Wheels" project is to be revamped, and will change the destination of every day's visit, and sometimes their frequency also. It's also a success today in Bokova. The general rule of counting for kids up to a certain age is to draw dots on a page and cross them out. It's effective up to a point (and an age). Today, I actually manage to get some of the children to start using their fingers to count in increments other than just one.
Without getting all teary-eyed and retrospective ( I still have over two weeks left), I think my word of choice for my stay in her household must be "wacky". A better man than me might be able to do justice and find the required words to make you fully envisage her infamous battle with a "beetle", her supervision of me preparing a pineapple, or her "special salute" that she gave to me when I recently bought her a beer. Priceless. I'm figuring great swaths of this trip will feel like they are only in my imagination, but that's not a bad place to be. If such thoughts aren't at least partly in your imagination, then where are they anyway?
No strength for Champion's League tonight.... Must crawl to bed.... Must recharge for tomorrow....
Plans for our visit to Bamenda continue to gather a pace. It's not a wedding at all. More a sort of come and visit the new people coming in to the family (the in-laws). So far, I have established that the area has the biggest supply of hash the sub-Saharan side of Marrakesh, and local people there traditionally refused to shake hands with white people, less they caught fire. There's obviously some setting fire to things issues needing to be resolved. All will be revealed in due course..
School today goes quite well, undertaking a reading comprehension for the senior classes. The school is ever changing presently. There are some major building works planned shortly, and there are always pictures, and play things such as hopscotch, a long jump pit, and even a small football pitch under development. If I came back in six months, I'd probably have to go back out and check the number on the door.
The "Schools on Wheels" project is to be revamped, and will change the destination of every day's visit, and sometimes their frequency also. It's also a success today in Bokova. The general rule of counting for kids up to a certain age is to draw dots on a page and cross them out. It's effective up to a point (and an age). Today, I actually manage to get some of the children to start using their fingers to count in increments other than just one.
Without getting all teary-eyed and retrospective ( I still have over two weeks left), I think my word of choice for my stay in her household must be "wacky". A better man than me might be able to do justice and find the required words to make you fully envisage her infamous battle with a "beetle", her supervision of me preparing a pineapple, or her "special salute" that she gave to me when I recently bought her a beer. Priceless. I'm figuring great swaths of this trip will feel like they are only in my imagination, but that's not a bad place to be. If such thoughts aren't at least partly in your imagination, then where are they anyway?
No strength for Champion's League tonight.... Must crawl to bed.... Must recharge for tomorrow....
Monday, November 23, 2009
3.14
I've taken to spending more time in "Coconut Island" recently. It's good fun chatting to the owner's children- Pauline and Junior. It' has sweeping view down into the city, and is a very laid back sort of place, yet I a can't seem to avoid getting in to a serious conversation about Cameroon's past or future. They always say never get involved in pub discussion about football, religion or politics. Well, those men in grey coats are right, and I adhere to this theory as best as possible back in Scotland. In Cameroon, football, religion and politics are pretty much all I speak about in bars. I think people are genuinely interested in how the outside world sees Cameroon. The country's favourite two pastimes are football and religion, so they're hard to avoid, too.
Tonight's discussion is with a very approachable civil servant of 36 years, now retired. Ralph finished his career in land reform and redistribution, the department responsible in this country for dealing with the almost endemic African problem of returning ancestral land to families who were denied it under colonial rule. In this country's situation it was very much a case of the Lord giveth, the Germans taketh away, and the British returneth. The process can be painfully slow and much of the land is still to be returned. There is also the additional problem of some current chiefs believing such land transfers are like a personal gift.
Ralph also tells me that the area of Buea was intended by the Germans to become a copy of Berlin, 10 kilometres square in size. Being comparably almost temperate, the area was highly conducive to the European settlers, who had decided there would be no available room for the existing locals. Instead, they would become marginalised in the hinterlands, commuting in for a hard day's graft before disappearing into the wilderness once more. Fate intervened with the outbreak of the Second World War, and the rest, as they say, is history.
It's interesting to walk past the scene of yesterday's wrestling gathering. The drums remain on the platform, with the kids taking over the beat. As they do, other children are practising the moves they learned from yesterday. Grass roots sport is where it all begins.
I meet my probable guide for the mountain this evening. His name is Samuel and he comes across as a friendly, but sturdy looking cove. I think he'll do just fine. I'll probably hire him independently and not through Ecotourism. The last two people I have spoken to who have climbed the mountain with them didn't enjoy the company of their guides, and the organisation has a mixed reputation, to say the least. It's a shame as there is substantial potential for this Mountain that the locals call "Fako".
C is still in Limbe, presumed partying. She's been gone for three days now. If I known she was going to be gone for that long, I'd have come with her. I thought it was just a flying visit. She will return some time soon.....
Tonight's discussion is with a very approachable civil servant of 36 years, now retired. Ralph finished his career in land reform and redistribution, the department responsible in this country for dealing with the almost endemic African problem of returning ancestral land to families who were denied it under colonial rule. In this country's situation it was very much a case of the Lord giveth, the Germans taketh away, and the British returneth. The process can be painfully slow and much of the land is still to be returned. There is also the additional problem of some current chiefs believing such land transfers are like a personal gift.
Ralph also tells me that the area of Buea was intended by the Germans to become a copy of Berlin, 10 kilometres square in size. Being comparably almost temperate, the area was highly conducive to the European settlers, who had decided there would be no available room for the existing locals. Instead, they would become marginalised in the hinterlands, commuting in for a hard day's graft before disappearing into the wilderness once more. Fate intervened with the outbreak of the Second World War, and the rest, as they say, is history.
It's interesting to walk past the scene of yesterday's wrestling gathering. The drums remain on the platform, with the kids taking over the beat. As they do, other children are practising the moves they learned from yesterday. Grass roots sport is where it all begins.
I meet my probable guide for the mountain this evening. His name is Samuel and he comes across as a friendly, but sturdy looking cove. I think he'll do just fine. I'll probably hire him independently and not through Ecotourism. The last two people I have spoken to who have climbed the mountain with them didn't enjoy the company of their guides, and the organisation has a mixed reputation, to say the least. It's a shame as there is substantial potential for this Mountain that the locals call "Fako".
C is still in Limbe, presumed partying. She's been gone for three days now. If I known she was going to be gone for that long, I'd have come with her. I thought it was just a flying visit. She will return some time soon.....
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Reach For Greatness
Wrestling has arrived in Beau Town today. Every so often, the local villages get together, putting their finest wrestlers forward for a fight to the death. Well, OK not actually to the death. More a pinning your opponents to the floor finish. To a non aficionado the wrestling looks very similar to most other wrestling around the world. There are no masks, tassels on boots, or hitting each other with conveniently placed collapsible chairs. This is the real thing. Instead, the warriors are bare chested wearing a sarong, usually on top of their trousers.
A big crowd has gathered to witness events on the "green". A team of drummers have been placed on a high wooden platform and beat their instruments for most of the day. Many of the duals last for quite a while, and a number do not reach any obvious conclusion. You certainly know it when they do. Any clear pinning is celebrated by a huge cheer from the crowd. The winner's team mates hoist him high on their shoulders and proceed to wheel themselves around the area, soaking up the adulation of the delighted crowd. The next two wrestlers then enter the arena. The bouts continue until the light has faded too much to continue. The crowd begin to disperse in the gloomy conditions, looking very content with what they have seen. Apparently, Buea Town did very well, winning the whole event.
Sitting watching the football in "No Name Bar", it's really intriguing watching all the local peddlars plying their trade. They stop off at many bars and shops displaying their wares. Belts and clothing are very common, as are pirated DVDs and boiled eggs. My favourite has to be the bling watches. These things would put a west coast gangsta rapper to shame. They are big, real big and real gold looking. I am so tempted to get one before I leave, but not sure it would fit in in Northern Scotland. I think I will need a suitable AKA before I can justify it.
There was not a drop of sunshine today, but that hasn't stopped it feeling very hot and humid. I guess is should be making the most of it.
Random local word or saying: "Ah-say!"
Translation: Inconclusive, due to no definitive answer. Is used as a polite way of initiating conversation when you have something you would like to say. Sort of like the quintessential Englishman's "I say!"
A big crowd has gathered to witness events on the "green". A team of drummers have been placed on a high wooden platform and beat their instruments for most of the day. Many of the duals last for quite a while, and a number do not reach any obvious conclusion. You certainly know it when they do. Any clear pinning is celebrated by a huge cheer from the crowd. The winner's team mates hoist him high on their shoulders and proceed to wheel themselves around the area, soaking up the adulation of the delighted crowd. The next two wrestlers then enter the arena. The bouts continue until the light has faded too much to continue. The crowd begin to disperse in the gloomy conditions, looking very content with what they have seen. Apparently, Buea Town did very well, winning the whole event.
Sitting watching the football in "No Name Bar", it's really intriguing watching all the local peddlars plying their trade. They stop off at many bars and shops displaying their wares. Belts and clothing are very common, as are pirated DVDs and boiled eggs. My favourite has to be the bling watches. These things would put a west coast gangsta rapper to shame. They are big, real big and real gold looking. I am so tempted to get one before I leave, but not sure it would fit in in Northern Scotland. I think I will need a suitable AKA before I can justify it.
There was not a drop of sunshine today, but that hasn't stopped it feeling very hot and humid. I guess is should be making the most of it.
Random local word or saying: "Ah-say!"
Translation: Inconclusive, due to no definitive answer. Is used as a polite way of initiating conversation when you have something you would like to say. Sort of like the quintessential Englishman's "I say!"
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The Red Baron
It's the weekend, and I celebrate by doing very little. Buea is a great place just to unwind when you don't have any other place to be, and the relaxed feeling of the place will surely be one of the many things that will shortly be missed. The football fest of a saturday and sunday will also be a loss. We get every single game here, beamed via a plethora of different international channels. The locals love it, and who am I to argue?
It's actually an unusual feeling being able to sit down in a bar and converse about football to other chaps I don't know, and have an intelligent conversation. There is no racist or sectarian bigotry, and many people I speak to hear are really articulate. They think about what they are going to say, and have a really good way of putting their point across. One man tonight has a belief that Brazil, England or Cameroon will win next year's World cup. I think he's right, but it won't be England or Cameroon.
Sitting in the bar, I find it slightly perplexing how people here will listen to the same song again and again and again. It's not so much the choice of music (ridiculously fast and ridiculously loud}, just an often lack of any variety. I've been in the same bar or internet cafe for several hours and the same song will be on repeat for all that time. One such tune is a song about a t-shirt, and an even more popular one is a Nigerian offering regarding a holy goat. They are the very definition of ubiquitous. Still managing to avoid Jack Johnson. Not once have I heard him. I just need to stay away from white people to essentially remove all risk. I've almost made it the entire trip!
I arrive home to some good news today. We are off to Bali! Probably not the Bali you're thinking of, but another one in Cameroon. This one is also some distance away. We have to go the famous city of Bamenda first and then take another bus onwards. Fortunately, all the transport is being laid on for us. The reason for our visit is another family wedding and C is overjoyed. She is dancing and waving her hands around as she announces the news. We leave on Friday.
Friday, November 20, 2009
The King Is Dead...
Coronation day today!! The school has closed early as a result. I thought something was afoot, as during the last couple of days, a big clean up operation has been undertaken around the football pitch, and along the road. Grass was cut and all rocks were splatted with white paint. A banner went up yesterday proclaiming the event, with a 12pm PROMPT start- most unusual for Africa. Sure enough it kicks off on time on the pitch and an ever increasing crowd watches events unfold. A lot of tents and seats have been arranged, though we manage to pick the worst seats in the house, right in the sunshine.
After nine years of waiting ( not sure why it has taken so long) the local village of Bitingi is to receives its new chief. He is Nje (John) Makosa, a 40 year old school principal. Makosa has been chosen by the local king makers after very careful consideration. A shot gun starts the four hour proceedings. Local choirs from nearby are there to entertain and welcome guests, and they sing often throughout the course of the afternoon.
A group of witch doctors are one of the first to make an appearance. They are dressed in traditional costumes. One of them is tucking into a beer bottle- yes he is eating the glass- whilst another has a live chicken strapped to his back. By the look in his eyes, the oldest one of them has clearly been on the funny stuff, and I find it just a little unsettling that this guy has one of the local shotguns for the rest of the afternoon. The strange throng of characters bless the area of the coronation, before dancing off.
After nine years of waiting ( not sure why it has taken so long) the local village of Bitingi is to receives its new chief. He is Nje (John) Makosa, a 40 year old school principal. Makosa has been chosen by the local king makers after very careful consideration. A shot gun starts the four hour proceedings. Local choirs from nearby are there to entertain and welcome guests, and they sing often throughout the course of the afternoon.
A group of witch doctors are one of the first to make an appearance. They are dressed in traditional costumes. One of them is tucking into a beer bottle- yes he is eating the glass- whilst another has a live chicken strapped to his back. By the look in his eyes, the oldest one of them has clearly been on the funny stuff, and I find it just a little unsettling that this guy has one of the local shotguns for the rest of the afternoon. The strange throng of characters bless the area of the coronation, before dancing off.
All the local chiefs are gathered for the event and are distinguishable by their brown skull caps, laced with seashells, and their bundles of sticks, which look remarkably like a small broom. There are about 30 in all and they sit together in one of the tents watching the proceedings. Occasionally, one of them will get up to help with a ceremony, tell a story or make a speech. One of the older ones has a real penchant for dancing, doing so whenever he can. This delights the crowd.
The best seats in the house (bottled water and flowers) are still to be taken. Originally, I thought these would be for the chiefs, but even in such a traditional event as this, the local government officials still hold sway. The Sub-divisional Officer of Buea arrives part way through the ceremony in his military uniform, along with other people in military uniforms and suits. They arrive to sing the national anthem, and take their seats afterwards. These bureaucrats have involvement and influence in the election process, and such activities must clearly have worn the main man out. He doesn't really look in the least bit interested in events. People still defer to his status and parts of the event are focused towards him.
I must admit to being slightly concious of the number of men wandering around with loaded and "unbroken" shotguns. They just point them in any direction they feel like, and fire them at very random moments, singlehandedly. One of the military figures in the VIP entourage eventually furiously chases one of them away. The perpetrator melts into the crowd rather sheepishly.
Some tradtionally dressed male warriors arrive along with three Ju-Ju men. The Ju Ju are scary spiritual figures. One of them has a huge head with horns. Quite striking. After they have finished dancing and singing, there is yet more speeches, more singing and more dancing. The chief leaves the arena to go to the ancestral home in the village where he will be properly inagugrated. The other chiefs leave with them, and return thereafter. Shortly afterwards, there is the usual announcement asking someone to move their car: "Will the owner of the vehicle registered SW4476 23 please remove their motor from the new chief's parking space".
The new chief takes his place on his throne in a small grass covered hut, with elephant tusks at the entrance. A kingmaker sits either side of him. He is now properly installed. His official title is His Royal Highness, Chief 3rd class. I'm not sure how the regal system works or whether it is taken seriously by the officialdom, but the villagers are quite content by it existence. I do know that the long wait for the new chief has been a cause of concern for some time in the village. It's certainly a day to celebrate and a fantastic part of local heritage to be involved in.
The ceremony draws to a close late afternoon and then it's back to the school for some food and drink, laid on by the villagers. At events such as this, and weddings, you never pay for anything not even the drinks. It is all very generously laid on for you. Availibility can often be a bit sparse. There are so many people needing to be catered for, and getting a Castel can be a bit of a bun fight. It's the very much the fast or last principle. I'm delighted to get a plate this time, and even a plastic spoon.
Fed and watered, I walk back to downtown with Simon, a member of the crowd, and part time volunteer at the nearby orphanage in Bokova. He's studying at the moment to become an engineer, and is keen on helping the orphans, as he himself is one. He's very good company and it's good to share the experiences of what has been a tremendous afternoon.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
We Are Here Because You Are There
School is a bit interupted at the moment due to trainee teachers from the local teacher's college undertaking there first lessons. The only class I take today is behemoth of both class 6's. That makes 60 children in all. Too much! There aren't even enough desks. Shun is walking about school again, this time with two big water containers. This is another one of those bizzarre things that oddly sets my mind at rest. I think he must be making a pond for his garden. Heaven knows where he will get the Coi Carp from.
SOW is a bit of a sucess today. I simultaneously take a computer lesson for teenagers, and a reading and writing lesson for 6 year olds. Thankfully, only four teenagers turn up for the computer lesson, as there is only one computer. Resources can be pretty scarce around here, particularly when you most need them.
Best places witnessed driving up the road towards the mountain, and into the sun- "Dr Obama's Snack Bar" and "No Comment Bar", where people are flagrantly breaching the house rules, conversing quite freely.
Random local word or saying of the day: "Dash me some monies."
Translation: "Give me some money."
SOW is a bit of a sucess today. I simultaneously take a computer lesson for teenagers, and a reading and writing lesson for 6 year olds. Thankfully, only four teenagers turn up for the computer lesson, as there is only one computer. Resources can be pretty scarce around here, particularly when you most need them.
Best places witnessed driving up the road towards the mountain, and into the sun- "Dr Obama's Snack Bar" and "No Comment Bar", where people are flagrantly breaching the house rules, conversing quite freely.
Random local word or saying of the day: "Dash me some monies."
Translation: "Give me some money."
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Wonderful Thing
Today is Wednesday. Therefore, it must be rubber plantation visiting day! We travel along the Yaounde road to the village area of Tiko. Our guide for today is Terrence, a very affable chap, and casual worker at the school. We start at the farm, watching the white rubber sap dripping in to the buckets, which are tied to the trees. There are lots of trees. There are lots of mosquitoes. These are particularly nasty looking black and white ones, who would give you malaria for looking at them the wrong way. There is also another encounter with a big ant. I used to like ants.
We then proceed to the factory site, where, somehow, Terrence manages to wangle us in with visitors passes. Security didn't look too happy at first- I don't think they get a lot of tourists. It is highly interesting watching all the various processes involved in changing white sap into scorched black blocks. Truck arrive, people wash and the squeeze the rubber, and containers are filled. The rubber is then shipped all over the world to be created into an unimaginable number of different things.
We even have time to visit a nearby small holding, where a very nice woman shows us around her variety of plants, including Peanuts, Pineapples, and Huckleberry. We even get to try some of the nuts straight from the ground. It wasn't my intention to make this excursion today. I'm surprised how much I have enjoyed the whole experience. Well done Terry! We celebrate with a spot of lunch- plantains, fish, rice and beans. And a beer.
It's Natalie's last night here before she returns to Germany, so I make it back downtown for a few drinks. Walking back up the road in the dark, I fail to avoid a very deep dirty puddle and cover my leg best flip flops in filth. It's hard not to see the funny side as, from the darkness, I hear Shun doing an immaculate impersonation of a London underground train: - "Mind the gap. Mind the gap."
We then proceed to the factory site, where, somehow, Terrence manages to wangle us in with visitors passes. Security didn't look too happy at first- I don't think they get a lot of tourists. It is highly interesting watching all the various processes involved in changing white sap into scorched black blocks. Truck arrive, people wash and the squeeze the rubber, and containers are filled. The rubber is then shipped all over the world to be created into an unimaginable number of different things.
We even have time to visit a nearby small holding, where a very nice woman shows us around her variety of plants, including Peanuts, Pineapples, and Huckleberry. We even get to try some of the nuts straight from the ground. It wasn't my intention to make this excursion today. I'm surprised how much I have enjoyed the whole experience. Well done Terry! We celebrate with a spot of lunch- plantains, fish, rice and beans. And a beer.
It's Natalie's last night here before she returns to Germany, so I make it back downtown for a few drinks. Walking back up the road in the dark, I fail to avoid a very deep dirty puddle and cover my leg best flip flops in filth. It's hard not to see the funny side as, from the darkness, I hear Shun doing an immaculate impersonation of a London underground train: - "Mind the gap. Mind the gap."
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Wild? I Was Furious!
I was informed today that there is no a school today and tomorrow due to a teacher's training forum.. I make the most of my first day off by arranging to meet up with Natalie in Limbe. Negotiating my way through the Chelsea taxi touts, one of them attempts to charge me 10000 CFA. I assume that this must be for the car itself, but it's a dilapidated looking machine, so I take the mini-bus instead.
It's a pretty successful day, seeing more than the coach park and the oil rig this time around. We firstly take in the Limbe Wildlife Centre, a home for orphaned animals taken from the wild. The animals are in very good condition, full of life, with plenty of young- always a good sign. It's mostly primates- Chimpanzees,Mandrills, Baboons, Gorillas, monkeys-, but there's also room for a couple of antelope, some crocodiles and a python. It's quite a contrast watching the slow moving, almost regal, gorillas staring across in almost palpable disbelief at the hooping, fighting and dancing Chimpanzees. The latter are far too human for their own good.
With all the primates behind a cage or fence ( some may know I have a lot of bad luck with such creatures), the wildest thing I encounter is a really browned off (big soldier) ant who has negotiated its way into my shorts, and is determined on highlighting to me that one of us is definitely in the wrong place. No self inflicted flurry of blows will shift it either, so i have to disappear behind a small bush and seek retribution.
The centre isn't particularly big, but the enclosures are pretty spacious, with plenty of climbing apparatus and seats to sit and stare at the humans. One of the mandrills has suffered a laceration on his leg ( maybe from a fight), and is put under sedation by the European vet, before being carried to a holding cage until it revives itself. It's kind of strange seeing a non human being put into the recovery position. A lot of the workers here appear to be European volunteers, and I gather it's quite a prestigious place to get in to.
Being with a German, we make the mandatory stop at the bakers before hitting the beach. Etisha beach is a good 20 minute drive from Limbe. It's a lovely stretch of coastline, with vegetation coming almost right down to the black, volcanic sand. Mist crowns the hills in the near background. The waves are impressive also, a manageable size for some wave surfing, even for a man with the swimming ability of "Eddie the Eel". It's also great just relaxing in the sun, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on to the beach, watching the locals carrying bananas and driftwood off into the distance.
We leave early evening, making our way back to prepare the Mexican food that is tonight's meal. I can report that the results were pretty tasty. Limbe is a pretty happening place- there is always a get together or party arranged. A lot of tourists and volunteers live here, and there is a very different vibe here compared to Buea. The heat and the sweat of Limbe can't compare to my tranquil hill station retreat, though.
It's a pretty successful day, seeing more than the coach park and the oil rig this time around. We firstly take in the Limbe Wildlife Centre, a home for orphaned animals taken from the wild. The animals are in very good condition, full of life, with plenty of young- always a good sign. It's mostly primates- Chimpanzees,Mandrills, Baboons, Gorillas, monkeys-, but there's also room for a couple of antelope, some crocodiles and a python. It's quite a contrast watching the slow moving, almost regal, gorillas staring across in almost palpable disbelief at the hooping, fighting and dancing Chimpanzees. The latter are far too human for their own good.
With all the primates behind a cage or fence ( some may know I have a lot of bad luck with such creatures), the wildest thing I encounter is a really browned off (big soldier) ant who has negotiated its way into my shorts, and is determined on highlighting to me that one of us is definitely in the wrong place. No self inflicted flurry of blows will shift it either, so i have to disappear behind a small bush and seek retribution.
The centre isn't particularly big, but the enclosures are pretty spacious, with plenty of climbing apparatus and seats to sit and stare at the humans. One of the mandrills has suffered a laceration on his leg ( maybe from a fight), and is put under sedation by the European vet, before being carried to a holding cage until it revives itself. It's kind of strange seeing a non human being put into the recovery position. A lot of the workers here appear to be European volunteers, and I gather it's quite a prestigious place to get in to.
Being with a German, we make the mandatory stop at the bakers before hitting the beach. Etisha beach is a good 20 minute drive from Limbe. It's a lovely stretch of coastline, with vegetation coming almost right down to the black, volcanic sand. Mist crowns the hills in the near background. The waves are impressive also, a manageable size for some wave surfing, even for a man with the swimming ability of "Eddie the Eel". It's also great just relaxing in the sun, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on to the beach, watching the locals carrying bananas and driftwood off into the distance.
We leave early evening, making our way back to prepare the Mexican food that is tonight's meal. I can report that the results were pretty tasty. Limbe is a pretty happening place- there is always a get together or party arranged. A lot of tourists and volunteers live here, and there is a very different vibe here compared to Buea. The heat and the sweat of Limbe can't compare to my tranquil hill station retreat, though.
Monday, November 16, 2009
I Am Fine
Kids in school are very touchy feely and love hugging and holding hands with the volunteers. They appear fascinated with white skin and laugh at white people's facial features. The greatest source of interest, though, is hair. They are always offering to plat it (one reason why I had to get it chopped), and are simply mesmerised by how soft it feels. I am beginning to feel like a household pet. There have been two or three requests for me to get it shaved entirely, but I think that must just be jealousy.
Buea's finest young minds are often trying to get me to do embarrassing things. They recently demanded that I copy them singing a local song. I finally caved, to unsurprising howls of laughter. "Good!", one of the girls said. "Now dance!" On another occasion, when hearing the lesson was complete, a pupil said: "The lesson is finished! Now do something funny..." Maybe balancing a beachball, or climbing the "Wall of death" might suffice.
Coming back from school today, I meet a peculiar looking man bounding towards me at high speed. He's a runner, fairly mature chap still looking in an incredibly athletic condition. He's covered in sweat, wearing a skin tight vest, eyewateringly tight running shorts, and the thickest pair of gloves you can imagine. We make our introductions, and then he gets to the main part of the meeting: "Tell everyone that Jesus is in Cameroon. Go tell your friends and go to the Ecotourism office. Tell Scotland about it. Tell everybody about the news!!!" A shake of his massively clad hand later, he's cantering up the hill towards Bokova, and possibly salvation itself. I'm just sort of standing there looking at him leave, wondering what's it all about. What is it all about?
Taking the taxi up the road I set a new record for most people outside of a moving taxi- 5. There are two standing in the boot, one relaxing on the roof, and two standing out of the back seat side windows. I wonder if I will beat this one?
I return to witness Mickey running after his 15 year old cousin with a shovel in his hands. I know I'm home when I see such things, and I'm starting to feel alarmingly reassured by such happenings. Otherwise the house is very quiet and a tranquil evening is spent undertaking a little bit of work.
Random local saying or word of today: "Cutlass"
Translation: Another word for a long knife or machete.
Buea's finest young minds are often trying to get me to do embarrassing things. They recently demanded that I copy them singing a local song. I finally caved, to unsurprising howls of laughter. "Good!", one of the girls said. "Now dance!" On another occasion, when hearing the lesson was complete, a pupil said: "The lesson is finished! Now do something funny..." Maybe balancing a beachball, or climbing the "Wall of death" might suffice.
Coming back from school today, I meet a peculiar looking man bounding towards me at high speed. He's a runner, fairly mature chap still looking in an incredibly athletic condition. He's covered in sweat, wearing a skin tight vest, eyewateringly tight running shorts, and the thickest pair of gloves you can imagine. We make our introductions, and then he gets to the main part of the meeting: "Tell everyone that Jesus is in Cameroon. Go tell your friends and go to the Ecotourism office. Tell Scotland about it. Tell everybody about the news!!!" A shake of his massively clad hand later, he's cantering up the hill towards Bokova, and possibly salvation itself. I'm just sort of standing there looking at him leave, wondering what's it all about. What is it all about?
Taking the taxi up the road I set a new record for most people outside of a moving taxi- 5. There are two standing in the boot, one relaxing on the roof, and two standing out of the back seat side windows. I wonder if I will beat this one?
I return to witness Mickey running after his 15 year old cousin with a shovel in his hands. I know I'm home when I see such things, and I'm starting to feel alarmingly reassured by such happenings. Otherwise the house is very quiet and a tranquil evening is spent undertaking a little bit of work.
Random local saying or word of today: "Cutlass"
Translation: Another word for a long knife or machete.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Honest Betrayal
It's been nice to get the bucket of hot water for the shower every morning. There is no such thing as warm water through the mains,it is lovingly heated up over the fire or the hob. A warm shower requires a little jug to throw it over yourself to get all squeaky clean. All water is switched off after about 3pm until approximately 6am. In any kitchen or bathroom, much of the floor space is taken up by big containers full of water for the barren spell of each day. It all sounds a bit of nuisance, but it's pretty incredible how used to it you get when there is no option. Besides, any alternative is now being viewed as a complete extravagance!
I meet the young man and friend with the dictaphone from last night's dance. They are very keen on my thoughts about Cameroon. They come across as two very disaffected young adults, and are very keen to use the power of The United Nations and The Commonwealth to create a more democratic system of government. I try to explain that I don't really have the contacts at either institute to initiate an invasion, but they could maybe start a protest to show their annoyance. I'm just waiting for jail now when the authorities discover I put two young men up to establishing the biggest riot in Buea's history.
The conversation ends (bizarrely, but not completely unexpectedly) by dictaphone dude asking to get some email addresses for the Oprah Winfrey Show. He has a idea for a programme and is keen to let the US' queen of chat shows in on his plan. This is the sort of experience nobody should ever get tired of encountering. I said I would look into it for them. Can anybody help? I think the very idea alone deserves some assistance.
After some writing, I return to find C has acquired some palm wine. Trying it for the second time, I'm not exactly convinced that I really like it. You could describe it as very natural and unprocessed- almost earthy-or you describe it as as rough as the proverbial badger's..... One mouthful is enough for me tonight, swiftly followed by a book and candle light.
Random Word Or Saying Of The Day: " I am the one!/He is the one!/She is the one!"
Translation: "It was me!/ It was him!/ It was her!"
I meet the young man and friend with the dictaphone from last night's dance. They are very keen on my thoughts about Cameroon. They come across as two very disaffected young adults, and are very keen to use the power of The United Nations and The Commonwealth to create a more democratic system of government. I try to explain that I don't really have the contacts at either institute to initiate an invasion, but they could maybe start a protest to show their annoyance. I'm just waiting for jail now when the authorities discover I put two young men up to establishing the biggest riot in Buea's history.
The conversation ends (bizarrely, but not completely unexpectedly) by dictaphone dude asking to get some email addresses for the Oprah Winfrey Show. He has a idea for a programme and is keen to let the US' queen of chat shows in on his plan. This is the sort of experience nobody should ever get tired of encountering. I said I would look into it for them. Can anybody help? I think the very idea alone deserves some assistance.
After some writing, I return to find C has acquired some palm wine. Trying it for the second time, I'm not exactly convinced that I really like it. You could describe it as very natural and unprocessed- almost earthy-or you describe it as as rough as the proverbial badger's..... One mouthful is enough for me tonight, swiftly followed by a book and candle light.
Random Word Or Saying Of The Day: " I am the one!/He is the one!/She is the one!"
Translation: "It was me!/ It was him!/ It was her!"
Saturday, November 14, 2009
D Day- Part 2 (Revised)
C has gone to the farm early today to get Okre and firewood, so I am forced to go to town and forage for food this morning. The place is its usual busy self with the extra spice of today's final World Cup qualifier" Morocco v Cameroon. The bars are getting busy fairly early, and expectation hangs in the air.
I had planned on meeting up with one of the girls in Limbe today, taking in the game and visiting the zoological gardens and wildlife sanctuary. I am keen on meeting the resident gorilla. However, all Limbe plans are shelved and my stay today will be exclusively in Town. I bump into my Nigerian money exchanger (Stephen), who insists on my coming to his premises to watch the earlier Nigeria game on his PC. I catch the last few minutes of Nigeria's 2-3 win with a small spattering of Nigerians, closely followed by a bit of MUTV- Stephen is a fully subscribed member of the channel.
Squeeze in a bit of emailing- happy birthday Rachel!- then it's off to watch the game. Incredibly, the signal has been lost from the Arabic channel, and the first twenty minutes are spent watching a blue screen, much to the disdain of the local supporters. A large cheer begins eminating from a group of radio listeners, spreading throughout the town- Cameroon have scored an early goal! They don't look back, recording an easy win against their North African adverseries. The crowd in the bar become increasingly vocal, with flags flown and blow horns tooted. The "Indominatables" are going to to 2010!!
In the fading light, I make it along the road to watch a traditional Bacqueri cutural evening on the outskirts of town. Bacqueri is C's tribe and one of the main ones in SW province, and the evening celebrates their cutural diversity. I arrive to witness a dance called the "Cham- Cham". Everyone gets in a circle and sort of grooves about a bit. A very friendly (resting) performer explains the finer differences between this and the "Cha-Cha". I thought the "Cha-Cha" was from elsewhere? During the course of the dance, I get interviewed by a young university student with a dictaphone, who has been commentating on tonight's proceedings. He introduces me as "the white man in the crowd" and ends proceedings by thanking "Mr Johnny from Scotchielan' ."
Finally make it to the club tonight. Don't actually enter the club proper, more the sort of caberet place, where the resident band are performing, accompanied by a number of lead singers. One of the singers is resplendent in a "Tony Manero" white disco suit. The evening is just fine and ends at a very respectable time. Nights out in Cameroon can continue for some time, with "until dawn" a very arbitrary concept, but this doesn't concern me tonight.
I had planned on meeting up with one of the girls in Limbe today, taking in the game and visiting the zoological gardens and wildlife sanctuary. I am keen on meeting the resident gorilla. However, all Limbe plans are shelved and my stay today will be exclusively in Town. I bump into my Nigerian money exchanger (Stephen), who insists on my coming to his premises to watch the earlier Nigeria game on his PC. I catch the last few minutes of Nigeria's 2-3 win with a small spattering of Nigerians, closely followed by a bit of MUTV- Stephen is a fully subscribed member of the channel.
Squeeze in a bit of emailing- happy birthday Rachel!- then it's off to watch the game. Incredibly, the signal has been lost from the Arabic channel, and the first twenty minutes are spent watching a blue screen, much to the disdain of the local supporters. A large cheer begins eminating from a group of radio listeners, spreading throughout the town- Cameroon have scored an early goal! They don't look back, recording an easy win against their North African adverseries. The crowd in the bar become increasingly vocal, with flags flown and blow horns tooted. The "Indominatables" are going to to 2010!!
In the fading light, I make it along the road to watch a traditional Bacqueri cutural evening on the outskirts of town. Bacqueri is C's tribe and one of the main ones in SW province, and the evening celebrates their cutural diversity. I arrive to witness a dance called the "Cham- Cham". Everyone gets in a circle and sort of grooves about a bit. A very friendly (resting) performer explains the finer differences between this and the "Cha-Cha". I thought the "Cha-Cha" was from elsewhere? During the course of the dance, I get interviewed by a young university student with a dictaphone, who has been commentating on tonight's proceedings. He introduces me as "the white man in the crowd" and ends proceedings by thanking "Mr Johnny from Scotchielan' ."
Finally make it to the club tonight. Don't actually enter the club proper, more the sort of caberet place, where the resident band are performing, accompanied by a number of lead singers. One of the singers is resplendent in a "Tony Manero" white disco suit. The evening is just fine and ends at a very respectable time. Nights out in Cameroon can continue for some time, with "until dawn" a very arbitrary concept, but this doesn't concern me tonight.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Horse's Head
I see another bizarre sight on the road today. As I'm walking to the village school, a car drives past, jam packed. Inside isn't enough to cater for everybody, so one of the youths (in a bright yellow Chelsea shirt) drapes himself over the the bonnet, mostly in front of the driver. Whether all concerned thought that, as long as he is wearing a sort of safety vest, all will be ok is uncertain. It's very hard not to look quite bemused when such things pass you at 8am.
Shun has encountered a small problem in his attempts to create a Japanese garden: somebody dug up his bamboo thingy in the middle of the night, and has stolen it!! I don't know where this leaves the entire project, but I expect to see Shun with another clump of Bamboo very shortly. You couldn't make this stuff up.
I am given quite an opportunity today, one which I am not exactly qualified for; one that nobody at the school is exactly qualified for. A new Down Syndrome girl has arrived at the school. Her name is Entombe, and her class teacher gets me in to try and explain why she is different, and what can be done. The main crux of the conversation is that she wants me to take her away from class as often as possible, and teach her alone. It's very easy to sympathise with the teacher, who will badly struggle to teach Entombe, and the rest of the class under the "fast or last" schooling sytem. I tell the teacher the basics of the genetic condition, and she has no idea about it. Nobody has told her anything. "Maybe I can get the mother in as well, so you can tell her what you just told me" she says after I have said the small amount I know. Her mother is a teacher. Hopefully something can be arranged.
One thing I haven't done is mention my nemesis- someone who can strike fear into your very heart. I live in a household, almost exclusively of women: Catherine is the matriarch, despite the fact her aging mother lives with her too. The mother must be well into her seventies, and seems to spend nearly all day, in the cook/smokehouse at the back of the building. This lady is tough and thinks nothing of a long walk to the farm for firewood. C's oldest daughter is divorced and lives in the house with her three year old son; her youngest daughter also stays there with her four month old baby; and finally, three grandchildren (from one of C's twin daughters who died quite young) complete the roll call. You can imagine it gets quite noisy, quite often.
Now you would think that myself and the 3 year old fellah would stick together. However, Michael or "Mickey" has other ideas. I have come to know him as the "Baby faced assassin". He always greets me with his usual (pre) choirboy smile and friendly wave. This is my signal for Red Alert: battle stations!! Mickey is very bright, speaks a lot of English, (his favourite saying to me is: "I will not tell you!") and is more than a little bit cute- basically, a fearsome combination. The boy is a whirlwind, indefatigable. He gets everywhere and touches everything. He will cry at all hours, but never in my company- I think the little terror is too busy doing very bad things to me and my possessions.
Mickey's recent crimes against humanity include: hitting me with a stick; stealing my candle (so I could not see in the dark); trying to lock me in my room; lying about being able to read; biting me on my arm; and headbutting me in the Kugglesachen (this might have been an accident). Recently he asked me for a saw knife (serrated edge). "Why do you want that?" I asked innocently. "So I can cut your head off" he replies. This would normally be the time where I started sleeping with a locked door, but he has already worked out a way of opening it, so no point in doing that. You get the idea.
Once his one child crime spree is over, he ostensibly gives me the same choirboy smile and friendly wave for any witnesses, before trotting off to select his next hapless victim. Recently, C put it in her own inimitable way when she said: "That boy will flog his wife well!" I couldn't put it any better. I get this eerie feeling that,somehow, I will end up next to Shergar. Things can very tough going around here.
Random local saying or word of today: "I need to ease myself."
Translation: "I would like to go to the toilet."
Shun has encountered a small problem in his attempts to create a Japanese garden: somebody dug up his bamboo thingy in the middle of the night, and has stolen it!! I don't know where this leaves the entire project, but I expect to see Shun with another clump of Bamboo very shortly. You couldn't make this stuff up.
I am given quite an opportunity today, one which I am not exactly qualified for; one that nobody at the school is exactly qualified for. A new Down Syndrome girl has arrived at the school. Her name is Entombe, and her class teacher gets me in to try and explain why she is different, and what can be done. The main crux of the conversation is that she wants me to take her away from class as often as possible, and teach her alone. It's very easy to sympathise with the teacher, who will badly struggle to teach Entombe, and the rest of the class under the "fast or last" schooling sytem. I tell the teacher the basics of the genetic condition, and she has no idea about it. Nobody has told her anything. "Maybe I can get the mother in as well, so you can tell her what you just told me" she says after I have said the small amount I know. Her mother is a teacher. Hopefully something can be arranged.
One thing I haven't done is mention my nemesis- someone who can strike fear into your very heart. I live in a household, almost exclusively of women: Catherine is the matriarch, despite the fact her aging mother lives with her too. The mother must be well into her seventies, and seems to spend nearly all day, in the cook/smokehouse at the back of the building. This lady is tough and thinks nothing of a long walk to the farm for firewood. C's oldest daughter is divorced and lives in the house with her three year old son; her youngest daughter also stays there with her four month old baby; and finally, three grandchildren (from one of C's twin daughters who died quite young) complete the roll call. You can imagine it gets quite noisy, quite often.
Now you would think that myself and the 3 year old fellah would stick together. However, Michael or "Mickey" has other ideas. I have come to know him as the "Baby faced assassin". He always greets me with his usual (pre) choirboy smile and friendly wave. This is my signal for Red Alert: battle stations!! Mickey is very bright, speaks a lot of English, (his favourite saying to me is: "I will not tell you!") and is more than a little bit cute- basically, a fearsome combination. The boy is a whirlwind, indefatigable. He gets everywhere and touches everything. He will cry at all hours, but never in my company- I think the little terror is too busy doing very bad things to me and my possessions.
Mickey's recent crimes against humanity include: hitting me with a stick; stealing my candle (so I could not see in the dark); trying to lock me in my room; lying about being able to read; biting me on my arm; and headbutting me in the Kugglesachen (this might have been an accident). Recently he asked me for a saw knife (serrated edge). "Why do you want that?" I asked innocently. "So I can cut your head off" he replies. This would normally be the time where I started sleeping with a locked door, but he has already worked out a way of opening it, so no point in doing that. You get the idea.
Once his one child crime spree is over, he ostensibly gives me the same choirboy smile and friendly wave for any witnesses, before trotting off to select his next hapless victim. Recently, C put it in her own inimitable way when she said: "That boy will flog his wife well!" I couldn't put it any better. I get this eerie feeling that,somehow, I will end up next to Shergar. Things can very tough going around here.
Random local saying or word of today: "I need to ease myself."
Translation: "I would like to go to the toilet."
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Is It: A) Don Williams; B) Don Simon; C) Don Quixote ?
Bit of a hectic day in't school. Mr Nduka has been bravely battling malaria recently, and finally succumbed to the doctor and narcotics. He's expecting to be fine after the weekend. As a resultof him being absent, I end up taking extra classes at short notice. I also help with the PE classes, where the boys are roundly trounced by the girls once more.
SOW is interesting today. There appears to be an ever increasing posse of boys in the village, who have gotten wind that I can take a computer or two every Thursday. I'm expecting about 86 young chaps next week.
Stop back in Downtown on the way back to visit all the other volunteers in their wee house. Last week was spent redecorating and the results are pretty impressive. Haven't seen them in much over the last week or so, so it's fine to catch up. One of the girls has just climbed the mountain. It was great to see all her photos, and certainly reminded me of previously being up in the mist.
Shun was entertaining us with his creation from wood work class. Earlier, I had seen him walking about with this big clump of Bamboo, and thought it a bit strange. It transpires that he was making some ornamental Japanese wotsit, fully intent on turning a patch of ground into a Japanese garden (hopefully, where harrassed volunteers can recouperate). I don't really get the gyst of what he has made, but he's buried it in the ground for some reason. A rare few beers with the team in Moliko before the usual hilarity and surrealism of my house.
Bed, a chance to dream.
SOW is interesting today. There appears to be an ever increasing posse of boys in the village, who have gotten wind that I can take a computer or two every Thursday. I'm expecting about 86 young chaps next week.
Stop back in Downtown on the way back to visit all the other volunteers in their wee house. Last week was spent redecorating and the results are pretty impressive. Haven't seen them in much over the last week or so, so it's fine to catch up. One of the girls has just climbed the mountain. It was great to see all her photos, and certainly reminded me of previously being up in the mist.
Shun was entertaining us with his creation from wood work class. Earlier, I had seen him walking about with this big clump of Bamboo, and thought it a bit strange. It transpires that he was making some ornamental Japanese wotsit, fully intent on turning a patch of ground into a Japanese garden (hopefully, where harrassed volunteers can recouperate). I don't really get the gyst of what he has made, but he's buried it in the ground for some reason. A rare few beers with the team in Moliko before the usual hilarity and surrealism of my house.
Bed, a chance to dream.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
By the Way, An' Thaaat
The day starts with the usual mini-cab ride down town. Travelling down, I see a taxi on the opposite side of the dual carriageway, merrily driving into the oncoming traffic. Even by road safety standards here, this is pretty unusual, and I figure he must be practicing for his test. It's nearly always a "he" when I mention driving in Cameroon. I could count the number of women drivers on one foot.
The sun beats down as I exit the taxi and head for lessons- a rare blast of sunshine in an otherwise dull looking week. There's a tap in a small village along the way, which is always running and has been very handy during my little hikes. It must be an important watering point, as there is often a 4x4 or three, waiting to fill up as many containers as can be fitted in.
For some strange reason, a large group of smaller kids seen intent on flash-mobbing today, intent on hanging on to me and pulling me to my doom. In the end, I convince them that there is a new volunteer, waiting to meet them at the school gates, and hand them copious amounts of sweeties. This is obviously the point I leg it in the other direction. It's terrible to lie to small kids and I don't feel big or clever, but needs must.
Actually, there is a new volunteer at the school. His name is Shun and he has arrived from Japan. Shun comes across as a very gregarious, and friendly character, who will prove very popular. I wonder if the kids will call him "white man".
Back at the house, well fed and watered as usual, the radio gradually sends me into a slumber tonight. The BBC World Service has been an awesome find. The corporation is highly regarded all over the world and it is easy to see why, listening to their productions here. It all reminds me just how good they can be, and I can't help having a wee feeling of pride (like I am partly responsible), whenever I switch it on. The whole channel is naturally slanted towards relevant African news and features, but there is an incredible mix of stories from around the world too.
As a whole, it beats the tripe of "dumbed down" news we have at home. Who really gives a pooh if Cheryl Cole has been denied planning permission for an underground swimming pool? (unless she was going to drown her husband in it). Even the additional "extra" stories are great, much better than the "And finally..." clips from home, where a windsurfing dog is supposed to make us forget about the other 27 minutes of news, and world poverty.
Such features include: The tale of three Soviet all women air force regiments from WW2, so good the Nazis feared them as the "Night Witches"; a tale about how people in Agra are becoming marginalised from the most beautiful building in the world: The Taj Mahal; and (my favourite): how Glaswegian is being translated into all major European languages (including English), due to the communication problem it creates in the business world. Just wait for the Rosetta Stone copy to make an appearance.
The sun beats down as I exit the taxi and head for lessons- a rare blast of sunshine in an otherwise dull looking week. There's a tap in a small village along the way, which is always running and has been very handy during my little hikes. It must be an important watering point, as there is often a 4x4 or three, waiting to fill up as many containers as can be fitted in.
For some strange reason, a large group of smaller kids seen intent on flash-mobbing today, intent on hanging on to me and pulling me to my doom. In the end, I convince them that there is a new volunteer, waiting to meet them at the school gates, and hand them copious amounts of sweeties. This is obviously the point I leg it in the other direction. It's terrible to lie to small kids and I don't feel big or clever, but needs must.
Actually, there is a new volunteer at the school. His name is Shun and he has arrived from Japan. Shun comes across as a very gregarious, and friendly character, who will prove very popular. I wonder if the kids will call him "white man".
Back at the house, well fed and watered as usual, the radio gradually sends me into a slumber tonight. The BBC World Service has been an awesome find. The corporation is highly regarded all over the world and it is easy to see why, listening to their productions here. It all reminds me just how good they can be, and I can't help having a wee feeling of pride (like I am partly responsible), whenever I switch it on. The whole channel is naturally slanted towards relevant African news and features, but there is an incredible mix of stories from around the world too.
As a whole, it beats the tripe of "dumbed down" news we have at home. Who really gives a pooh if Cheryl Cole has been denied planning permission for an underground swimming pool? (unless she was going to drown her husband in it). Even the additional "extra" stories are great, much better than the "And finally..." clips from home, where a windsurfing dog is supposed to make us forget about the other 27 minutes of news, and world poverty.
Such features include: The tale of three Soviet all women air force regiments from WW2, so good the Nazis feared them as the "Night Witches"; a tale about how people in Agra are becoming marginalised from the most beautiful building in the world: The Taj Mahal; and (my favourite): how Glaswegian is being translated into all major European languages (including English), due to the communication problem it creates in the business world. Just wait for the Rosetta Stone copy to make an appearance.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I'll Take The Bed In The Corner
Walking to school today, it really strikes me just how many children carry their tools around with them. The tool is sometimes a curved handled shovel, but usually, it is a machete. These tools can quite literally be the length of the child themselves. They seem to use them just before and/or just after school.
Taking such implements to school will clearly save time going home and whatnot. It feels very strange seeing so many potentially lethal weapons being carried around by people so young, particularly as many of them are on the way to school. It's almost like it's bad form not to go to school all " tooled up". I guess this must be how a tourist in Glasgow must feel. To be fair, the kids here don't have a hammer in the other hand.
I spoke to man after-school today who was very keen to learn about British politics. It is very confusing (for all concerned) to try and explain about the whole UK/ Great Britain thing. You have to explain that the Queen is in charge, but isn't really, that Scotland has a parliament, but in a way doesn't really, and the same for Wales, Northern Ireland etc....
Like many other people here, this chap was very distrusting of the whole political thing. There are free elections here, with the President then making his own choices, which is almost understandable....But surprise, surprise he enjoys power so much that he recently changed the law to give himself a life presidency. Mr Bea had originally changed the law to prevent something like this happening, but had a wee change of heart. Power is a very strange thing.
Corruption is rife. Politicians are well known for embezzling/ stealing billions of francs of public money, and my friend tells me the system is set up for it. When the crooks do get caught, they get a soft jail term in a soft prison, where they can continue to spearhead operations. The public don't really care much for the jailing of these people- they simply want their money back, and rarely ever see any of it. You know the system is wrong when private sector workers leave their jobs for the bigger perks and salaries of a public sector job. Surely it is normally the other way around?
Nobody comes to SOW (School On Wheels) today, and this is a little bit disappointing. I figure the Monday afternoon village visit has been very sporadic since I arrived, and this must play a big part in the lack of attendance.
We end up taking the school bus back to downtown, as (fortuitously?) it is taking the children home from extra lessons this evening. To say the bus is crammed full of people is a massive understatement ( It always is). "Standing room only" is a slight misconception too; more like "croutching and contorted in agony room only". A tin opener is usually required when we make it to our final destination, where every one crawls out for breath. Not thinking things are cramped enough, a very young looking Finch in his first week of aeronautical school flies in the drivers window, and sit's on his knee. Quite extraordinary.
I enjoy a fun evening with C and S, both of whom are in very good form, and many a laugh is had. S is preparing her baby's baptism invitations for next month. Baby is getting baptized on Christmas Day, which I find rather a fine idea.
Random saying of the day: " I am coming."
Translation: " I am going, and might not see you for some time."
Taking such implements to school will clearly save time going home and whatnot. It feels very strange seeing so many potentially lethal weapons being carried around by people so young, particularly as many of them are on the way to school. It's almost like it's bad form not to go to school all " tooled up". I guess this must be how a tourist in Glasgow must feel. To be fair, the kids here don't have a hammer in the other hand.
I spoke to man after-school today who was very keen to learn about British politics. It is very confusing (for all concerned) to try and explain about the whole UK/ Great Britain thing. You have to explain that the Queen is in charge, but isn't really, that Scotland has a parliament, but in a way doesn't really, and the same for Wales, Northern Ireland etc....
Like many other people here, this chap was very distrusting of the whole political thing. There are free elections here, with the President then making his own choices, which is almost understandable....But surprise, surprise he enjoys power so much that he recently changed the law to give himself a life presidency. Mr Bea had originally changed the law to prevent something like this happening, but had a wee change of heart. Power is a very strange thing.
Corruption is rife. Politicians are well known for embezzling/ stealing billions of francs of public money, and my friend tells me the system is set up for it. When the crooks do get caught, they get a soft jail term in a soft prison, where they can continue to spearhead operations. The public don't really care much for the jailing of these people- they simply want their money back, and rarely ever see any of it. You know the system is wrong when private sector workers leave their jobs for the bigger perks and salaries of a public sector job. Surely it is normally the other way around?
Nobody comes to SOW (School On Wheels) today, and this is a little bit disappointing. I figure the Monday afternoon village visit has been very sporadic since I arrived, and this must play a big part in the lack of attendance.
We end up taking the school bus back to downtown, as (fortuitously?) it is taking the children home from extra lessons this evening. To say the bus is crammed full of people is a massive understatement ( It always is). "Standing room only" is a slight misconception too; more like "croutching and contorted in agony room only". A tin opener is usually required when we make it to our final destination, where every one crawls out for breath. Not thinking things are cramped enough, a very young looking Finch in his first week of aeronautical school flies in the drivers window, and sit's on his knee. Quite extraordinary.
I enjoy a fun evening with C and S, both of whom are in very good form, and many a laugh is had. S is preparing her baby's baptism invitations for next month. Baby is getting baptized on Christmas Day, which I find rather a fine idea.
Random saying of the day: " I am coming."
Translation: " I am going, and might not see you for some time."
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Young Man And The Storyteller: A Tale For The Young And The Curious
The Young man was sweating profusely. For some time he had been climbing, and his bag was beginning to feel a little heavier. There had been considerable rain in the period before the climb had began and the moisture still sat heavy in the air. Freshly formed puddles lay everywhere, and were deep. Equally frequent tree roots were slippery, treacherous to those unsteady of foot, or lacking in attention.
At the start of the climb, one of the young man's shoes had failed him, and broken free from his foot. It was placed in his bag; he would see to it later. The trail was deserted. The recent downpour had seen to that: The young man neither passed anybody, nor was he passed by anybody else. Up and up he climbed. The trees and vegetation on either side of the path blocked his view, preventing any chance of perspective been placed upon his location. They also trapped the precipitation, making conditions even muggier. Sometimes, the path narrowed into the foliage and all things felt oppressive. There were many stones and rocks along the way, a seemingly increasing amount of which felt sharp and painful to his normally overprotected, and now, exposed foot.
Hours earlier, the young man had been in a house. It had been built at the bottom of the hill, in a clearing. Maybe it had been made from the very trees that had been cleared for it's creation. The house was not grandiose. However, it was very elegant in a colonial style, and had a certain charm. I guess you could say that it was beautiful. Maybe one had to have been inside it to understand where it's charm came from, and how it's beauty lay.
Walking through the corridors and rooms of the house gave you the feeling that the residents had just gone out, maybe for a walk down to the beach or up to the mountain. A sowing machine and walking stick sat idle, as if they had just been used. The house effused a warm and welcome feel to it's visitors, a feeling you get in some houses and not in others. It appeared to say: "I am more than a house, I am a home. I have been loved. I have made people happy."
Up and up he climbed, further and higher still. He thought that the views must be spectacular by now, if only he could see! He continued to sweat, and the stones continued to feel sharp. He took a rest, and then drank from his bottle. The water was cool and refreshing. He was glad of it, as his legs were of the rest. He sat and contemplated his destination. Days before, he had been unaware of it's existence, or, more precisely, it's actual location. He hadn't believed it could be so far away from its source. Now, the young man was as determined to see it as if he crossed the oceans solely for its visitation.
The Storyteller had been born into a wealthy family. He had suffered in his health, and a sickly child had, in turn, developed into a sickly man. In spite of, and because of, his illnesses he had determined that he would travel the world, looking for places that suited, and excited him. Illness affected his travels, but adventure was the central theme. For the storyteller was a true adventurer; not in the physical sense- illness had curtailed any possibility. However, such illness had sparked an inclination and opportunity for an ever increasing imagination, and a romanticism of what the great world had to offer.
He put his bottle back into his bag, picked himself up and continued on his way. His mind wandered to previous experiences on his travels: the cool sea breeze of a distant shore; of laying awake at night listening to the sounds of a jungle chorus; a craggy mountain path leading into the mist; the people he had come to know as friends. All of these things had taken place under a myriad of foreign skies and he was pleased to remember every one.
All these thoughts were quickly dispelled as he re-focused, once again, on the path ahead. He knew he could not be far away now. Soon he would be there. The young man wondered how many others had made such a pilgrimage. He also wondered about the route he had taken, one that was predetermined and offered no real opportunity for deviation. Coming out of a particularly tall thicket of trees, the path narrowed to its smallest width yet, before opening out into a clearing. The air felt fresher; light stole back the trees from shadow. A soft breeze blew through his hair. He had arrived.
Like many other European settlers, the storyteller had arrived in this strange land far away from home. He looked and behaved differently to the locals. He must have aroused quite a bit of curiosity, for he looked different to the other settlers as well. I dare say he also created a certain degree of suspicion amongst all of the island's inhabitants. Many native people were wary of European rule, of being controlled by foreign people, who had little understanding of the customs and sensitivities of those who had been here for many years. But, as you know, the storyteller was different, and the locals quickly came to realise this. He built his house far from other Europeans and quickly involved himself in native life. He thought like them, and fought for them, and many people grew to love him for it.
Making his way over to the small stone monument, in the centre of the opening, the young man considered what exactly the tribute would be. He walked up to the long white stone lying on the ground and traced his fingers over the stone's metallic plaque, reading to himself as his fingers move over each letter and word. Time had faded the colour of the stone and taken the gleam off the engraving, but this didn't matter.
108 years before, the storyteller had lost his delicate grip on life, in his 45th year. The night he died a group of locals had insisted on standing guard over him until daylight, thereafter carrying him up to his final resting place on top of the mountain. They carried their hero, friend and "Tusitala". He had championed their cause, and now, in death, they granted him his final wish. They buried him there on the 4th December 1894. He was dressed wearing his walking boots in case he should choose to, once more, walk in the nearby hills he so dearly loved.
The young man left the graveside and walked across to the far side of the opening, where it plunged over the side to the forest below. He saw a magnificent view of his surrounds. He looked off to the distance and saw a number of southern islands, and the vast ocean which encapsulated them all. As he gazed out to sea, he contemplated. He was saddened to think of those lives that are cut short when so much is still to be offered. Some time before, he had been told that a life is not to be measured by length, but rather by it's accomplishments and the people it has affected. These words gave him heart.
He looked upon life as one long adventure. Although he did not know his own future, he resolved to make the most of the time afforded to him; he hoped for the strength and grace to face the challenges that life would inevitably create. He knew that when life became difficult all things broken could be fixed, all things hurt could be healed, and all things lost could be found. He was pleased to be considering such things; he thought of them as important, and hoped that others thought similarly from time to time.
The young man moved back to the monument and re-read the inscription:
He thought the words perfect for the storyteller, and the location he now stood in. He knew he would remember these words.
The young man wished he could have met the storyteller on the mountain all those years ago. He knew not what he would have said to him, but hoped they could have spoken candidly, and at length. Maybe they would have walked down the mountain together, back to the house at the bottom of the hill, and the storyteller would have read one of his stories to the villagers, on the verandah, as the shadows lengthened.
After they brought the Storyteller to the mountaintop , the local people had emotionally cut the path from the side of the mountain. They had given it the name "Road of the Loving Hearts". He endeavoured to make the most of his walk back down it. Even though he had made the exact same walk recently, he would look on it as a new adventure, one where every step provided new possibility.
He leaned on the faded white stone, took off his good shoe, and placed it in the bag with his other one. As he set off to go back down, he was sure that the stones would not feel so sharp, the air would not feel so heavy, and the trees would not seem so oppressive.
At the start of the climb, one of the young man's shoes had failed him, and broken free from his foot. It was placed in his bag; he would see to it later. The trail was deserted. The recent downpour had seen to that: The young man neither passed anybody, nor was he passed by anybody else. Up and up he climbed. The trees and vegetation on either side of the path blocked his view, preventing any chance of perspective been placed upon his location. They also trapped the precipitation, making conditions even muggier. Sometimes, the path narrowed into the foliage and all things felt oppressive. There were many stones and rocks along the way, a seemingly increasing amount of which felt sharp and painful to his normally overprotected, and now, exposed foot.
Hours earlier, the young man had been in a house. It had been built at the bottom of the hill, in a clearing. Maybe it had been made from the very trees that had been cleared for it's creation. The house was not grandiose. However, it was very elegant in a colonial style, and had a certain charm. I guess you could say that it was beautiful. Maybe one had to have been inside it to understand where it's charm came from, and how it's beauty lay.
Walking through the corridors and rooms of the house gave you the feeling that the residents had just gone out, maybe for a walk down to the beach or up to the mountain. A sowing machine and walking stick sat idle, as if they had just been used. The house effused a warm and welcome feel to it's visitors, a feeling you get in some houses and not in others. It appeared to say: "I am more than a house, I am a home. I have been loved. I have made people happy."
Up and up he climbed, further and higher still. He thought that the views must be spectacular by now, if only he could see! He continued to sweat, and the stones continued to feel sharp. He took a rest, and then drank from his bottle. The water was cool and refreshing. He was glad of it, as his legs were of the rest. He sat and contemplated his destination. Days before, he had been unaware of it's existence, or, more precisely, it's actual location. He hadn't believed it could be so far away from its source. Now, the young man was as determined to see it as if he crossed the oceans solely for its visitation.
The Storyteller had been born into a wealthy family. He had suffered in his health, and a sickly child had, in turn, developed into a sickly man. In spite of, and because of, his illnesses he had determined that he would travel the world, looking for places that suited, and excited him. Illness affected his travels, but adventure was the central theme. For the storyteller was a true adventurer; not in the physical sense- illness had curtailed any possibility. However, such illness had sparked an inclination and opportunity for an ever increasing imagination, and a romanticism of what the great world had to offer.
He put his bottle back into his bag, picked himself up and continued on his way. His mind wandered to previous experiences on his travels: the cool sea breeze of a distant shore; of laying awake at night listening to the sounds of a jungle chorus; a craggy mountain path leading into the mist; the people he had come to know as friends. All of these things had taken place under a myriad of foreign skies and he was pleased to remember every one.
All these thoughts were quickly dispelled as he re-focused, once again, on the path ahead. He knew he could not be far away now. Soon he would be there. The young man wondered how many others had made such a pilgrimage. He also wondered about the route he had taken, one that was predetermined and offered no real opportunity for deviation. Coming out of a particularly tall thicket of trees, the path narrowed to its smallest width yet, before opening out into a clearing. The air felt fresher; light stole back the trees from shadow. A soft breeze blew through his hair. He had arrived.
Like many other European settlers, the storyteller had arrived in this strange land far away from home. He looked and behaved differently to the locals. He must have aroused quite a bit of curiosity, for he looked different to the other settlers as well. I dare say he also created a certain degree of suspicion amongst all of the island's inhabitants. Many native people were wary of European rule, of being controlled by foreign people, who had little understanding of the customs and sensitivities of those who had been here for many years. But, as you know, the storyteller was different, and the locals quickly came to realise this. He built his house far from other Europeans and quickly involved himself in native life. He thought like them, and fought for them, and many people grew to love him for it.
Making his way over to the small stone monument, in the centre of the opening, the young man considered what exactly the tribute would be. He walked up to the long white stone lying on the ground and traced his fingers over the stone's metallic plaque, reading to himself as his fingers move over each letter and word. Time had faded the colour of the stone and taken the gleam off the engraving, but this didn't matter.
108 years before, the storyteller had lost his delicate grip on life, in his 45th year. The night he died a group of locals had insisted on standing guard over him until daylight, thereafter carrying him up to his final resting place on top of the mountain. They carried their hero, friend and "Tusitala". He had championed their cause, and now, in death, they granted him his final wish. They buried him there on the 4th December 1894. He was dressed wearing his walking boots in case he should choose to, once more, walk in the nearby hills he so dearly loved.
The young man left the graveside and walked across to the far side of the opening, where it plunged over the side to the forest below. He saw a magnificent view of his surrounds. He looked off to the distance and saw a number of southern islands, and the vast ocean which encapsulated them all. As he gazed out to sea, he contemplated. He was saddened to think of those lives that are cut short when so much is still to be offered. Some time before, he had been told that a life is not to be measured by length, but rather by it's accomplishments and the people it has affected. These words gave him heart.
He looked upon life as one long adventure. Although he did not know his own future, he resolved to make the most of the time afforded to him; he hoped for the strength and grace to face the challenges that life would inevitably create. He knew that when life became difficult all things broken could be fixed, all things hurt could be healed, and all things lost could be found. He was pleased to be considering such things; he thought of them as important, and hoped that others thought similarly from time to time.
The young man moved back to the monument and re-read the inscription:
Under the wide and starry sky,Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
He thought the words perfect for the storyteller, and the location he now stood in. He knew he would remember these words.
The young man wished he could have met the storyteller on the mountain all those years ago. He knew not what he would have said to him, but hoped they could have spoken candidly, and at length. Maybe they would have walked down the mountain together, back to the house at the bottom of the hill, and the storyteller would have read one of his stories to the villagers, on the verandah, as the shadows lengthened.
After they brought the Storyteller to the mountaintop , the local people had emotionally cut the path from the side of the mountain. They had given it the name "Road of the Loving Hearts". He endeavoured to make the most of his walk back down it. Even though he had made the exact same walk recently, he would look on it as a new adventure, one where every step provided new possibility.
He leaned on the faded white stone, took off his good shoe, and placed it in the bag with his other one. As he set off to go back down, he was sure that the stones would not feel so sharp, the air would not feel so heavy, and the trees would not seem so oppressive.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Moliko Jo-Jo
Today is very relaxed, the day begins with another startling display of the weather around these parts, exactly a week (almost to the minute) after the last really thunderous show. This time the sky is even darker, and the rain even heavier. I imagine this is how Doomsday will probably begin. The weather is quite apt as, looking out the window, I listen to the BBC World Service's coverage of Remembrance Sunday from Whitehall.
I guess I will have to prepare for a few more days like this very shortly- there's only one thing wetter than a Scottish winter, and that's a Scottish summer, but the winter's are bad enough. Listening or watching things you have experienced so many time back home is always a little strange, when you are watching the same thing somewhere else. I guess it also underlines the fact that even though you are away, life is very much going on where you know it best.
I have a laugh with C about the events of the preceding day. She reminds me how I took one of the left over palm leaves from the ceremony and proceeded to give her a "White man's top 25 uses for a Palm leaf" over the course of the rest of the night. Don't think i quite managed 25. So many stories from yesterday.
Sipping on my beer, I witness more doom and gloom at "Freeze". People in Cameroon love their Lager, and beer trucks are almost as common as taxis. The bars open as early as anything else does, and there is always at least one person sitting at nearly every one when I start my morning's journey. The two big sellers are Castel and Export 33. The former is doing brisk business now as you can instantly win another bottle by checking under the lid for a symbol. Doing this is great fun, but I've only won once. The bottles here are big 650ml bruisers-anything else is for pansies.
Tuborg, Amstel, Mutzig and Bueaforth are the other contenders. Another one called Pelworth is the most expensive and is only ever mentioned in hushed tones. I have only seen it on an aged posted, and still am not entirely convinced about it's existence- a bit like Nessie and the Three Legged Haggis. If you don't like the Amber nectar, the other choices are reasonably limited. You can buy yourself the same size bottle of "Gin Tonic", or "Whisky Black". Now things get really serious. Both weigh in at 8.5%, and seem to start affecting your legs first, which is nuisance for walking home. Be warned!
My day is almost complete finishing off some prep work for tomorrow's lesson. Who would have thought copying and increasing in size a map would be so difficult? Australia, Indonesia, and (i'm ashamed to say) the UK, have caused all the problems this time around. Must be an island thing. Each one is grotesquely mis-shaped or quite a bit a way from where it should be. Here's me telling them everything on a map is to scale as well. It's the universe next week. What cosmic damage can I oversee for that?
I go through the contents of the first aid box in case I ever need to help myself in an emergency. There's quite a selection on display (C's daughter in law is a German Doctor). Not really sure that the rat poison should be in there, though. C intends to use it to "fix" a rather troublesome mouse that is behind on the rent, and not using the sofa properly. Feet down!
I guess I will have to prepare for a few more days like this very shortly- there's only one thing wetter than a Scottish winter, and that's a Scottish summer, but the winter's are bad enough. Listening or watching things you have experienced so many time back home is always a little strange, when you are watching the same thing somewhere else. I guess it also underlines the fact that even though you are away, life is very much going on where you know it best.
I have a laugh with C about the events of the preceding day. She reminds me how I took one of the left over palm leaves from the ceremony and proceeded to give her a "White man's top 25 uses for a Palm leaf" over the course of the rest of the night. Don't think i quite managed 25. So many stories from yesterday.
Sipping on my beer, I witness more doom and gloom at "Freeze". People in Cameroon love their Lager, and beer trucks are almost as common as taxis. The bars open as early as anything else does, and there is always at least one person sitting at nearly every one when I start my morning's journey. The two big sellers are Castel and Export 33. The former is doing brisk business now as you can instantly win another bottle by checking under the lid for a symbol. Doing this is great fun, but I've only won once. The bottles here are big 650ml bruisers-anything else is for pansies.
Tuborg, Amstel, Mutzig and Bueaforth are the other contenders. Another one called Pelworth is the most expensive and is only ever mentioned in hushed tones. I have only seen it on an aged posted, and still am not entirely convinced about it's existence- a bit like Nessie and the Three Legged Haggis. If you don't like the Amber nectar, the other choices are reasonably limited. You can buy yourself the same size bottle of "Gin Tonic", or "Whisky Black". Now things get really serious. Both weigh in at 8.5%, and seem to start affecting your legs first, which is nuisance for walking home. Be warned!
My day is almost complete finishing off some prep work for tomorrow's lesson. Who would have thought copying and increasing in size a map would be so difficult? Australia, Indonesia, and (i'm ashamed to say) the UK, have caused all the problems this time around. Must be an island thing. Each one is grotesquely mis-shaped or quite a bit a way from where it should be. Here's me telling them everything on a map is to scale as well. It's the universe next week. What cosmic damage can I oversee for that?
I go through the contents of the first aid box in case I ever need to help myself in an emergency. There's quite a selection on display (C's daughter in law is a German Doctor). Not really sure that the rat poison should be in there, though. C intends to use it to "fix" a rather troublesome mouse that is behind on the rent, and not using the sofa properly. Feet down!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Four Funerals And A Wedding
Wedding day today. The skies are blue, the people are singing, and the goat has been found. Happiness reigns, once more, over Buea. Not even a lack of internet connection (frequently happening) can dampen my spirits. Throwing on my linen trousers, best flip flops, and seventies disco shirt, I remark that we're already late for the service. "That's black man time. Nothing will happen for an hour or so yet" Suzzane says. Turns out she's right. However, by the time we do arrive, we still manage to be late, with everyone seated, and the singing under way. Nobody really seems to notice (or care).
The church is decked out in balloons, flowers, and ribbons, and looks just perfect. The overall feeling is one of warmth, though this might be the heat from outside creeping in. Fortunately, they put on the multitude of fans, much to everyone's joy. The first preacher gives a very funny sermon about how women are "shock absorbers" and "doubly refined products", and this goes down very well with the ladies in the congregation. The vows are exchanged, and the people stand up and shout, sing and dance when each half have said their bit. The choir join in too. All this stirs C from her sleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her, not even for the vows. She has been working so hard for the wedding, preparing loads of food. She got up at 5am today and 4am yesterday- Cameroonian food takes a lot of time and effort to create.
But such are services in this fine land. People are very vocal, and very spontaneous. There is no such thing as an austere, stiff collared service; at least I haven't seen one. All the exuberance always seems appropriate, never misplaced, and today is no exception. The happy couple proceed to dance a local shoulder shaking dance around the church under a held canopy of palm leaves (very biblical looking), moving towards the exit as they pass.
The first part over, it's down to the government offices for the reception. It takes place around a square shaped building, with the tables outside, all looking inwards to a central courtyard, where much of the proceedings take place. The MC keeps things moving along nicely, introducing the top table and then the bride and groom who have finally arrived. Still dancing, there appearance is met with more hooping and singing. This time they are headed for the top table.
Drinks are served, and the tables take it in turns to help themselves to the huge home-cooked buffet, sat tantalisingly close in the courtyard. C informs me that there is "a scarcity of plates", emptying the table's communal peanut bowl, giving it a wipe and then handing it to me, as she says it. The traditional high tempo African music gives way to slow and slushy western stuff like Elton John (not sure "Sacrifice" is entirely appropriate), Celine Dion, and of course, Don Williams. Good old Don. "Why do people here like him so much?" I ask. C replies: "His songs are very useful." Two young choirs sing their songs to the newly weds. The all male one is pretty good and they sing a cheeky little ditty about touching and kissing. The crowd find it quite amusing.
The songs sung, the cake cut and the speeches made, everyone lines up to hand over their present to the couple. I hand over my plate set and get a souvenier happy couple keyring in exchange, showing their smiling faces and inscribed with "Lydia and Henry" and the date. Such momentos are very popular here (including for funerals) and you will often see similar t-shirts, badges and hats detailing such notes as: "Percy Nduma. Sunrise 4th February 1954, sunset 3rd November 2008." Things start drawing to a close at the surprisingly early time of 7pm. The bride and the groom circulate, individually thanking those still remaining for coming, and handing over milk cookie sweets as a final gesture.
We take a taxi back to Town, for a few beers. I'm delighted to get myself a very snazzy retro 70's Mutzig Beer polo shirt, having courageously drank enough beer to qualify for it. We meet George, a local neighbour of C, and a teller of neck achingly tall tales. He takes us to the live music hotspot nearby, where a reggae band is "ripping things up".
They always say confront and conquer your fears, so I make the decision to accost the lead singer during his fag break and ask him to play a Bob Marley song. So it is that we find ourselves dancing to "Waiting In Vain" in a packed local bar (minus the empty dancefloor) at the foot of Mount Cameroon on an enjoyable Saturday evening. My "throwing of shapes" gets everybody's undivided attention and causes many a facial expression, mostly lost somewhere between consternation and downright hilarity. I'm sure I see one of them taking notes, and another making a phonecall. It is my tradition!
What a day.
The church is decked out in balloons, flowers, and ribbons, and looks just perfect. The overall feeling is one of warmth, though this might be the heat from outside creeping in. Fortunately, they put on the multitude of fans, much to everyone's joy. The first preacher gives a very funny sermon about how women are "shock absorbers" and "doubly refined products", and this goes down very well with the ladies in the congregation. The vows are exchanged, and the people stand up and shout, sing and dance when each half have said their bit. The choir join in too. All this stirs C from her sleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her, not even for the vows. She has been working so hard for the wedding, preparing loads of food. She got up at 5am today and 4am yesterday- Cameroonian food takes a lot of time and effort to create.
But such are services in this fine land. People are very vocal, and very spontaneous. There is no such thing as an austere, stiff collared service; at least I haven't seen one. All the exuberance always seems appropriate, never misplaced, and today is no exception. The happy couple proceed to dance a local shoulder shaking dance around the church under a held canopy of palm leaves (very biblical looking), moving towards the exit as they pass.
The first part over, it's down to the government offices for the reception. It takes place around a square shaped building, with the tables outside, all looking inwards to a central courtyard, where much of the proceedings take place. The MC keeps things moving along nicely, introducing the top table and then the bride and groom who have finally arrived. Still dancing, there appearance is met with more hooping and singing. This time they are headed for the top table.
Drinks are served, and the tables take it in turns to help themselves to the huge home-cooked buffet, sat tantalisingly close in the courtyard. C informs me that there is "a scarcity of plates", emptying the table's communal peanut bowl, giving it a wipe and then handing it to me, as she says it. The traditional high tempo African music gives way to slow and slushy western stuff like Elton John (not sure "Sacrifice" is entirely appropriate), Celine Dion, and of course, Don Williams. Good old Don. "Why do people here like him so much?" I ask. C replies: "His songs are very useful." Two young choirs sing their songs to the newly weds. The all male one is pretty good and they sing a cheeky little ditty about touching and kissing. The crowd find it quite amusing.
The songs sung, the cake cut and the speeches made, everyone lines up to hand over their present to the couple. I hand over my plate set and get a souvenier happy couple keyring in exchange, showing their smiling faces and inscribed with "Lydia and Henry" and the date. Such momentos are very popular here (including for funerals) and you will often see similar t-shirts, badges and hats detailing such notes as: "Percy Nduma. Sunrise 4th February 1954, sunset 3rd November 2008." Things start drawing to a close at the surprisingly early time of 7pm. The bride and the groom circulate, individually thanking those still remaining for coming, and handing over milk cookie sweets as a final gesture.
We take a taxi back to Town, for a few beers. I'm delighted to get myself a very snazzy retro 70's Mutzig Beer polo shirt, having courageously drank enough beer to qualify for it. We meet George, a local neighbour of C, and a teller of neck achingly tall tales. He takes us to the live music hotspot nearby, where a reggae band is "ripping things up".
They always say confront and conquer your fears, so I make the decision to accost the lead singer during his fag break and ask him to play a Bob Marley song. So it is that we find ourselves dancing to "Waiting In Vain" in a packed local bar (minus the empty dancefloor) at the foot of Mount Cameroon on an enjoyable Saturday evening. My "throwing of shapes" gets everybody's undivided attention and causes many a facial expression, mostly lost somewhere between consternation and downright hilarity. I'm sure I see one of them taking notes, and another making a phonecall. It is my tradition!
What a day.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Moonwashed
In school today, the kids seem particularly pleased to see me. That's always nice. "Somebody said you have already left us!" I'm told. Turns out it is Tim (the Dutch volunteer) who is leaving today. I haven't seen him in a while and I fortuitously bump into him as he is arriving for the goodbyes. Good luck to him.
As I wait for my bus, I speak to a parent of one of my children, who is well behind the others, struggling to read and write properly. He is clearly upset, and wanted her moved back a year, but the teachers do not let this happen. I can understand his frustrations. I have noticed more than one child across the classes who is lagging behind. I'm sure most teachers try with them, but the system is very much set up to get the majority through. The child's father is an interesting character, who has sailed around the world, but now being redundant has added to his concerns about his daughter's education. The school I go to is at the lower end of the fee-paying ones, and he is desperate not to waste what money he has left.
I go to my favourite bookshop today. It's called "Books 'n' Things" and is in down-town Moliko. An American man ships containers of books here, for the greater good of the populous, though I doubt that many have left the shelves since their arrival. I visit my friend Mathias, who is in charge of operations. He is still insistent on that Palm Wine, and looks remarkably healthy for a man who is recovering from a very recent bout of Malaria. He is also very keen for me to have some "Bushmeat" ( locally shot animals from the forest). I ask if I will eat anything endangered. "No" he says with a laugh. "Well, I don't want any then". "No, no. You have to try the Porcupine, it is delicious." I'm in as long as I don't have to prepare it.
Books in bag, it's off to look for a present for Saturday's wedding. I find a nice plate set which is an instant winner. I get it gift wrapped at the store- The better and bigger looking my present, the less likely that the happy couple will notice that I'm not wearing any shoes. Quite looking forward to the whole thing now. Wonder if they'll be a punch up.
I invest in some Guavas on the way home, and decide to stop off at the nearby tourist office. It's very rustic looking with a lot of things in boxes. There isn't really anywhere to sit or even anything to look at either. Must confess it's all a bit strange. However, I do receive some useful assistance from one of the men there. I am looking at seeing some nature before I leave, but It will need to be just before I depart as a very long wet season has made the roads to Korup National Park a little bit dicey. I hope I can fit a trip in.
The electricity has been unreliable recently, and has been off for most of today. Mind you, you know you are somewhere foreign when you are under your mosquito net, reading or writing by candlelight. The net is becoming increasingly important as the pests are on the rise. Killed three last night. Soon there will be an entire squadron.
Bad news when I get home: The goat for tomorrow's ceremony has gone missing. Apparently, the person who was responsible for it did not tie it up properly, and now it has gone AWOL. There have been tears believe me. Reports that a substitute goat has been brought in remain unconfirmed. I am resigned to a bigger dollop of fish instead.
Not letting such news dampen our spirits, C and I go down to the pre-wedding family get together, downtown at the groom's parent's house. There's a fair crowd, accomodated by a set up shelter and chairs, as seems customary for the rainy season, which faces part of the house, with the groom and best man sitting outside on a sofa, facing the crowd. Certain family members act as comperes, making a few short speeches, doing some dances and chants, and generally getting the crowd going.
I'm only half surprised when Catherine springs up from next to me and starts working her own magic on the audience. I can say that she does this more than once over the course of the evening, and she is very successful at it. Traditions are observed; the Whisky is handed over to the bride's father; and everybody is in good spirits.
Then the "Guess The Bride" game begins: A succession of differing girls are paraded to the groom to see how well he recognises his future wife. The girls are of differing ages (some impossibly young) and they are encouraged to act it up a bit by strutting and wiggling in front of everybody. One particularly confident girls sits down next to the groom and insists for a good five minutes that he remembers her as his betrothed. She is, of course, an imposter, and is promptly dispatched. Finally, one arrives in a wedding dress, face covered by a veil and I naturally assume this to be her. Wrong again. By the time the actual bride appears, C has got the other (mean looking) compere in a bear hug and has wrestled her to the chair. After the fisiticuffs have finished, the bride is presented with a dress to match the groom's outfit. She changes and then the happy couple sit resplendent on the sofa, as the eating and drinking begin.
Suffice to say the food is excellent, my first glass of wine is a joy, and the beer is, well, beer. We leave reasonably early, and I peak into the nearby nightclub (called Jupiter) on the way home. Unsurprisingly, it is pretty empty- things like that only get going really, really late. We finally get a taxi up the road, and lying in bed I reflect on what a brilliant cultural experience tonight has been. I hope the wedding is a success tomorrow.
As I wait for my bus, I speak to a parent of one of my children, who is well behind the others, struggling to read and write properly. He is clearly upset, and wanted her moved back a year, but the teachers do not let this happen. I can understand his frustrations. I have noticed more than one child across the classes who is lagging behind. I'm sure most teachers try with them, but the system is very much set up to get the majority through. The child's father is an interesting character, who has sailed around the world, but now being redundant has added to his concerns about his daughter's education. The school I go to is at the lower end of the fee-paying ones, and he is desperate not to waste what money he has left.
I go to my favourite bookshop today. It's called "Books 'n' Things" and is in down-town Moliko. An American man ships containers of books here, for the greater good of the populous, though I doubt that many have left the shelves since their arrival. I visit my friend Mathias, who is in charge of operations. He is still insistent on that Palm Wine, and looks remarkably healthy for a man who is recovering from a very recent bout of Malaria. He is also very keen for me to have some "Bushmeat" ( locally shot animals from the forest). I ask if I will eat anything endangered. "No" he says with a laugh. "Well, I don't want any then". "No, no. You have to try the Porcupine, it is delicious." I'm in as long as I don't have to prepare it.
Books in bag, it's off to look for a present for Saturday's wedding. I find a nice plate set which is an instant winner. I get it gift wrapped at the store- The better and bigger looking my present, the less likely that the happy couple will notice that I'm not wearing any shoes. Quite looking forward to the whole thing now. Wonder if they'll be a punch up.
I invest in some Guavas on the way home, and decide to stop off at the nearby tourist office. It's very rustic looking with a lot of things in boxes. There isn't really anywhere to sit or even anything to look at either. Must confess it's all a bit strange. However, I do receive some useful assistance from one of the men there. I am looking at seeing some nature before I leave, but It will need to be just before I depart as a very long wet season has made the roads to Korup National Park a little bit dicey. I hope I can fit a trip in.
The electricity has been unreliable recently, and has been off for most of today. Mind you, you know you are somewhere foreign when you are under your mosquito net, reading or writing by candlelight. The net is becoming increasingly important as the pests are on the rise. Killed three last night. Soon there will be an entire squadron.
Bad news when I get home: The goat for tomorrow's ceremony has gone missing. Apparently, the person who was responsible for it did not tie it up properly, and now it has gone AWOL. There have been tears believe me. Reports that a substitute goat has been brought in remain unconfirmed. I am resigned to a bigger dollop of fish instead.
Not letting such news dampen our spirits, C and I go down to the pre-wedding family get together, downtown at the groom's parent's house. There's a fair crowd, accomodated by a set up shelter and chairs, as seems customary for the rainy season, which faces part of the house, with the groom and best man sitting outside on a sofa, facing the crowd. Certain family members act as comperes, making a few short speeches, doing some dances and chants, and generally getting the crowd going.
I'm only half surprised when Catherine springs up from next to me and starts working her own magic on the audience. I can say that she does this more than once over the course of the evening, and she is very successful at it. Traditions are observed; the Whisky is handed over to the bride's father; and everybody is in good spirits.
Then the "Guess The Bride" game begins: A succession of differing girls are paraded to the groom to see how well he recognises his future wife. The girls are of differing ages (some impossibly young) and they are encouraged to act it up a bit by strutting and wiggling in front of everybody. One particularly confident girls sits down next to the groom and insists for a good five minutes that he remembers her as his betrothed. She is, of course, an imposter, and is promptly dispatched. Finally, one arrives in a wedding dress, face covered by a veil and I naturally assume this to be her. Wrong again. By the time the actual bride appears, C has got the other (mean looking) compere in a bear hug and has wrestled her to the chair. After the fisiticuffs have finished, the bride is presented with a dress to match the groom's outfit. She changes and then the happy couple sit resplendent on the sofa, as the eating and drinking begin.
Suffice to say the food is excellent, my first glass of wine is a joy, and the beer is, well, beer. We leave reasonably early, and I peak into the nearby nightclub (called Jupiter) on the way home. Unsurprisingly, it is pretty empty- things like that only get going really, really late. We finally get a taxi up the road, and lying in bed I reflect on what a brilliant cultural experience tonight has been. I hope the wedding is a success tomorrow.
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