At school bright and early today. The youngsters have their six weekly exams in the next day or two, so it is most definitely a case of revising all the geography we have studied in the last few weeks. I receive a range of answers to a range of questions. It's quite satisfying to hear a lot of good answers, but there's also some pretty interesting ones thrown in there too. "What's a galaxy?" I demand to know. One girl stands up: "Uncle, Uncle, It's a football team."
It's dominoes at break followed by an hour with Etonde. I get a few photos of the senior class 6 children and teachers for good measure. The kids are delighted at being "snapped" and are always keen to see the results. Whenever they see the camera (even when surreptitiously) drawn from my bag, a whole bunch of kids appear, complete with huge grins on their faces. It's a far cry from the days when African people firmly believed that the white photographer was stealing their souls.
I make the last SOW (School on Wheels) today. It turns out to be Bonakanda for the first time since I arrived. It's an end of the road town, just before you start going upwards instead of along. Judging by the state of the tiny village hall, I don't think anyone's been in it since it was built. The light streaming through the cracks in the wooden walls highlights a veil of dust, which conveniently forms a sort of cushion. The turnout today is good, though the children are quite challenging. Education levels here appear well down even compared to the other nearby local villages nearer the school and the city. Times tables and a spot of skipping completed, we're off along Cameroon's bumpiest road.
We stop to pick up a young crippled man with a rather large stick, who's off to the disabled craft evening in the village of Bokova. The people make goods tonight and then sell at the market to generate an income. It's a great idea. An old man hopes on next with a sack bag. He's also accompanied by the most horrendous stink. It really is bad. I imagine that this is what Beelzebub's jockstrap must smell like. "What's in the bag?", I ask him with a slight feeling of trepadation. "It's fowl", he tell me through a big grin, to which I naturally reply: "It most certainly is." Over his shoulder, Maggi, one of the German volunteers (and vegetarian), is almost wretching out of the window. Thankfully he gets out pretty soon afterwards, and, as a means of celebration, Shun sings me the "London Underground Song". It seems to be a bit of a cult comedy tune, and he encourages me to look it up on Youtube sometime. I think Shun has a bit of a fetish for the London tube.
The night streets are packed as we drive up the main drag towards Town. Several days are market day, but not every day. This evening seems unusually busy, with a huge crowd of buyers and sellers. Apart from food, the vast majority of goods are second hand clothes- hats, T-shirts, jeans. Judging by the brand names, the goods are either American in origin, or more probably British. How and in what capacity such a huge amount of goods arrive in Cameroon remains a big mystery. All other consumables are clearly Chinese.
An African leader recently announced that: "China gives Africa what Africa needs". Well, if Africa needs pencils that won't sharpen and torches that won't turn off, then so be it. The good are such poor quality, but their price allows many people many things that I imagine were previously beyond their means.
I walk back along the road in the failing light towards my house, hearing my first Xmas carol. Is it really December already? One certainty is that the carol is the first of many. Will I get Mariah Carey and Wham before I leave? Xmas is big here.
We were supposed to be visiting Catherine's son-in law this evening, but by the time everybody has eaten, it's pretty late. It's an unfortunate thing that in a place where many household chores are still manual- no washing machines, hoovers, or George Foremans- the local food takes an age to prepare. Often food needs to be washed, dried, ground, and then cooked. Let me assure you it's not the fellows accomplishing the endless domestic chores- they all seem to be sitting in the pub watching the Champion's League.
It's dominoes at break followed by an hour with Etonde. I get a few photos of the senior class 6 children and teachers for good measure. The kids are delighted at being "snapped" and are always keen to see the results. Whenever they see the camera (even when surreptitiously) drawn from my bag, a whole bunch of kids appear, complete with huge grins on their faces. It's a far cry from the days when African people firmly believed that the white photographer was stealing their souls.
I make the last SOW (School on Wheels) today. It turns out to be Bonakanda for the first time since I arrived. It's an end of the road town, just before you start going upwards instead of along. Judging by the state of the tiny village hall, I don't think anyone's been in it since it was built. The light streaming through the cracks in the wooden walls highlights a veil of dust, which conveniently forms a sort of cushion. The turnout today is good, though the children are quite challenging. Education levels here appear well down even compared to the other nearby local villages nearer the school and the city. Times tables and a spot of skipping completed, we're off along Cameroon's bumpiest road.
We stop to pick up a young crippled man with a rather large stick, who's off to the disabled craft evening in the village of Bokova. The people make goods tonight and then sell at the market to generate an income. It's a great idea. An old man hopes on next with a sack bag. He's also accompanied by the most horrendous stink. It really is bad. I imagine that this is what Beelzebub's jockstrap must smell like. "What's in the bag?", I ask him with a slight feeling of trepadation. "It's fowl", he tell me through a big grin, to which I naturally reply: "It most certainly is." Over his shoulder, Maggi, one of the German volunteers (and vegetarian), is almost wretching out of the window. Thankfully he gets out pretty soon afterwards, and, as a means of celebration, Shun sings me the "London Underground Song". It seems to be a bit of a cult comedy tune, and he encourages me to look it up on Youtube sometime. I think Shun has a bit of a fetish for the London tube.
The night streets are packed as we drive up the main drag towards Town. Several days are market day, but not every day. This evening seems unusually busy, with a huge crowd of buyers and sellers. Apart from food, the vast majority of goods are second hand clothes- hats, T-shirts, jeans. Judging by the brand names, the goods are either American in origin, or more probably British. How and in what capacity such a huge amount of goods arrive in Cameroon remains a big mystery. All other consumables are clearly Chinese.
An African leader recently announced that: "China gives Africa what Africa needs". Well, if Africa needs pencils that won't sharpen and torches that won't turn off, then so be it. The good are such poor quality, but their price allows many people many things that I imagine were previously beyond their means.
I walk back along the road in the failing light towards my house, hearing my first Xmas carol. Is it really December already? One certainty is that the carol is the first of many. Will I get Mariah Carey and Wham before I leave? Xmas is big here.
We were supposed to be visiting Catherine's son-in law this evening, but by the time everybody has eaten, it's pretty late. It's an unfortunate thing that in a place where many household chores are still manual- no washing machines, hoovers, or George Foremans- the local food takes an age to prepare. Often food needs to be washed, dried, ground, and then cooked. Let me assure you it's not the fellows accomplishing the endless domestic chores- they all seem to be sitting in the pub watching the Champion's League.
No comments:
Post a Comment