La Coopérative Scolaire

Last Friday saw the annual launch of « La Coopérative Scolaire » at ENIEG (the Teacher Training College where I work in case you were wondering) which comprised of an afternoon of sporting and cultural activities. The Cooperative is essentially the umbrella group for the clubs and societies that exist within the college and Friday was, literally, their day in the sunshine.

An event such as the Coopérative has absolutely no credence in Cameroon unless there is plenty of pomp, ceremony and no shortage of protocol attached to it. Friday was no different. I never cease to raise a smile when, while waiting for the dignitaries to arrive at such events and in order to pass the time, the MC for the day reads the programme of activities.

Friday’s programme went something like this:
13.00 – arrival of the teachers from the primary schools
13.05 – arrival of the primary school principals
13.10 – arrival of the ENIEG teachers and administration staff
13.15 – arrival of the Directeur of ENIEG of Yagoua
13.20 – arrival of the Délégué for primary education
13.25 – arrival of the Mayor of Yagoua
13.30 – arrival of the Sous-Préfet for the Yagoua arrondissement
13.35 – Singing of the national anthem by the ENIEG student teachers
13.40 – Parade of the clubs and societies
…and so on!

The funny thing about it was that the MC was reading this at 14.20 and nobody, except a few teachers and principals, was in place; nor did anyone seem to care. When the Sous-Préfet finally did arrive, accompanied by three gendarmes driving what looked like a Toyota Hilux, the activities proper kicked off.

A parade around the new football pitch by each club followed the obligatory speeches in which everyone thanked everyone else for coming. The members of the sports club marched in football jerseys and carried a football; the ICT club carried several of the laptops Lizzie brought over from the UK around the extremely sandy field under an extremely hot sun; the health club carried a roll of cotton wool and the bilingual club just marched and carried nothing. It was however the culture club that was the most impressive.

Boy George himself would have been impressed by the eclectic turnout of some of the club’s members for the tribal dancing. Everyone carried a stick while they danced and some of them were decorated in grass and leaves. It was the guy with the drum that stood out however. He carried this huge drum around while wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, shades and a motorbike helmet. I still cannot work out why on Allah’s earth he was wearing a motorbike helmet but he was. I did ask some of my colleagues and they hadn’t even noticed let alone knew why. I’m sure members of the health club were happy though.

The traditional dancing was divided on tribal lines between two of the biggest tribes in Yagoua – the Toupouri and the Masa. The idea of the tribe and tribal activities are really important to everyone here and people enjoy it. They danced because they wanted to; not because they had to. There was no group of student teachers standing apart trying to look cool, saying to themselves “Puh, look at those saddo’s over there doing their stupid dancing”.

Even when the parade finished they kept dancing; at half time in the football match they were dancing; when it got dark and everyone was going home they were still dancing. There was no cynicism, nobody was scornful, everyone just danced because it represents who they are and they were enjoying themselves.

After the parade, the Sous-Préfet duly left, but not before he undoubtedly collected his per diem, and the sporting and cultural activities started. There were football and handball matches, relay races, traditional wrestling and yet more dancing.

After the prize giving ceremony – in which the dancer of the day award was given to a reserved, gentlemanly colleague who, I discovered afterwards, was off his face on bil-bil (local home brew) rendering him completely nuts – we were invited for some food and beer. I was quick enough for the food (which included some delicious roast spuds) but lost out on the beer front.

Just as well as on the way home, buoyed by the sporting activities I’d witnessed all afternoon, I challenged a local to a sprint to a distant lamppost. We had kept passing each other on the road for about half a mile or so and when I said I was going « jusqu'à la réverbère » he didn’t need a second invitation.

So off we sped past the prison in the pitch dark hurtling our bikes towards the light in the distance. We were like Sean Kelly and Eric Vanderarden back in the day and there wasn’t the width of the tyre between us as we crossed the imaginary line.

And the winner? The VSO mantra is all about “Sharing Skills, Changing Lives”, the act of facilitation, of partnership, of capacity building, of volunteering – it doesn’t include anything about been beaten in a sprint; does it?

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M.O.U.N.T. C.A.M.E.R.O.O.N

M is for mountain. Mt Cameroon to be precise. At 4,095m it stands head and shoulders above any place in west or central Africa and is only dwarfed by Mount Kilimanjaro on the whole continent. It was trod on and over by a ten-strong group of us volunteers just before Christmas.

O is for lots of things but in this instance it’s for “Oh sh!t” which was uttered by most of us when we spotted a lava flow on the slopes of the mountain the night before we set off from Buea. It later turned out that said lava flow was in fact just a bit of burning alpine grass.

Undertaking. And that’s what it was. 3 days and two nights spent on an active volcano required the assistance of 2 guides, 12 porters and the permission of the God of the mountain, Epasso Moto (a ritual dance had to be performed by everybody with the aid of some ferns – it worked, he was happy and didn’t spit any hot rocks at us).

Nice was the name of the mini packets of biscuits that Zeeshan seemed to have in unlimited supply in his magic pocket. Over the 40km we covered in the 3 days he always seemed to have a packet at the ready at each of the countless stops along the way. Nice by name, nice by nature, nice by taste too.

T arzan spent some time hanging out on Mount Cameroon. The film, Greystoke, the Legend of Tarzan was filmed on the slopes of the mountain in 1982 and at the time of filming Christopher Lambert’s Tarzan almost had his loin cloth singed by an eruption…of the volcano!

C is for craters. Being an active volcano the most impressive sights on the trip were the craters from the eruptions in 1999 and again a year later.

Ampoule - French for blister. What a lot of people suffered from on day 3. To force your feet into shoes and then ask them to tramp up a mountain when they’ve enjoyed the airy freedom of flip-flops for months does have painful consequences. Mischa scooped the award for best blister.

M arshmallows from Ghana made our meal on the first night by a blazing campfire. Another M is for “Merci Sam”.

Ever-changing was the landscape. From dense rainforest to alpine meadows and topped with ash and lava flows it sometimes felt as if you were a Lilliputian walking over the remains of a coal fire.

R is for the Race of Hope which is held every year in February. It involves headers running up and down the mountain with the first completing it in about 4½ hours – that’s up and down, about 40km which is almost marathon distance…I’d be happy to run a marathon on the flat in 4½ hours never mind up and down a flaming volcano.

Once was the number of times my shoes were decorated with Canadian puke. ‘O’ is also for “I owe you one Bronwyn”.

"Ow, ow, ow" was the sound from everybody’s lips for days afterwards when trying to walk down steps.

N is for number 1 in the Cameroonian tourist charts. Having been lucky enough to enjoy many amazing sights since arriving here, Mount Cameroon has thus far been the highlight. Maybe I’m biased as mountains are my thing but it was a great experience and one that will live long in the memory.

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Do they know it's Christmas?

In 1984 when a certain Scot called Midge Ure and an uncertain Dubliner called Sir Bob Geldof, penned the lyrics to the song, “Do they know it’s Christmas?” I’m sure they couldn’t have imagined they were writing what would become an all time Christmas classic and, indeed, one of the largest selling singles in UK chart history.

Perhaps, as the song celebrates its 25th anniversary, it’s worth asking is the title as pertinent now as it was then? - do the people in Africa actually know it’s Christmas? From where I’m sitting (in shorts and a t-shirt) the answer is that ‘it’s Christmas Bob, but not as we know it!’

Despite all the climatic changes in the last quarter of a century, there will not be any snow in Africa again this Christmas. Nor will there be any Budweiser Clydesdales horsing around in the snow, turkey and stuffing sandwiches or wren boys; let alone mince pies, sleigh bells or Chris Rea stuck in traffic with a Christmas tree sticking out of his boot.

Speaking of trees, I’ve seen four (all artificial) since the start of December and three of those were on sale outside the Chinese shop in Maroua where you can also buy plastic flowers and other useless knick-knacks. In a continent where “nothing ever grows, no rain or rivers flow” I suppose it would be hard to find a tree at all, let alone a Christmas one with a fairy, lights and pine needles.

Still on the topic of trees, partridges in pear trees would also be hard to find. However, if you could settle for a bat in a mango tree, together with 10 leaping Lamidos and 8 maids who are good at mixing Nestle NIDO milk powder, then I think we’d have that base covered.

The Père Noël base is not however. The closest you’d get to a big fat jolly man in a red suit would be if you took a gendarme (generally the roundest people here as they spend their time sitting on the roadside collecting bribes), dressed him up in a bootlegged Liverpool tracksuit and sat him astride a horse and cart. You could then fill the cart with Nigerian sweets and bottles of Top Pamplemousse and send him to work in a grotto of dried grass positioned in the market between the butcher and the tomato woman. Ho-ho-ho!

In terms of Christmas shopping, lots of improvisation is required. If you replaced a tin of Afternoon Tea with packets of broken digestives from Nigeria (all the best sugary stuff comes from Nigeria), a Gillette Men’s Toiletry Gift Set with a bar of soap and the Guinness Book of Records 2010 with a thumbed copy of The Traveller’s Good Health Guide from the VSO resource centre, then you’d manage it.

Indiana Jones, Willie Wonka or Del Boy Trotter have all yet to make their mark on Cameroonian television. The best celebrity on offer is Chantelle Biya (President Paul’s wife) who, despite looking like Tina Turner in drag (google it if you don’t believe me), manages to get herself on the small screen a lot more often than Dr. Zhivago.

As Yagoua is a predominantly Muslim town, getting your hands on a miniature crib filled with plastic figurines would be a problem (you could try the Chinese shop in Maroua though). However, seeing as the country is full of donkeys, cattle, shepherds and mangers you’d have no problem creating your own live nativity.

As the sky is clear every night, following a star would be easier than using a Garmin sat nav and you’d only have to go to Chad to get yourself a few camels. A baby Jesus would be the biggest challenge as blond haired Caucasian infants are few and far between out here.

Back in 1984 Bono and his perm-haired cohorts sang of a world of “dread and fear”, of bitter tears and “clanging chimes of doom”. From where I’m sitting (still in my shorts and t-shirt) things aren’t that bad. People do know it’s Christmas and will celebrate it as best they can underneath the burning sun.

So “Here’s to you, raise a glass to everyone”. Joyeux Noël à tous,

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Brawling Workshops

Harborne Hall is a period house that is nestled in mature gardens 20 minutes from the centre of Birmingham. It is the centre of the VSO universe and to tread on its richly varnished foyer floorboards is an obligatory rite of passage for all volunteers. Put it this way, if all VSO volunteers were Muslim, Harborne Hall would be Mecca.

Before I set foot in Cameroon I underwent intensive training in HH on three separate occasions. I was trained, instructed and indoctrinate on such diverse topics as globalisation, HIV & AIDS awareness, the challenges facing a new volunteer and the practice of facilitation; to name just a few. As a graduation gift, each volunteer was given the volunteer’s bible – The Facilitator’s Guide to Participatory Approaches – which basically outlines what it takes to be a good facilitator and how you can involve the locals in the process.

I brought the guide to Cameroon and I’ve put it to good use in the few workshops that I’ve delivered since I arrived. Now before I go on, a word about workshops. I’m sure you’re secretly wondering ‘what the hell is a bloody workshop?’, but would never admit it. I know I hadn’t a clue what a workshop was before I was VSO-tised either.

My Pocket Collins Dictionary, which I bought in Seamus Duffy’s Bookshop in Westport, for €5.99 (it’s still got the sticker on the back to prove it), defines a workshop as “n. a place where things are made”. I bet you’re picturing a bench, some spanners, an angle-grinder, welding rods, grease and overalls – now that’s a workshop. Well, a VSO workshop is slightly different however.

(facilitate, vb. – make easy) A workshop in VSO parlance consists of permanent markers, an overhead projector (if there is electricity!), people, flip chart paper, flash cards, practical activities, masking tape, scissors and warm-up games or energisers as they’re known. We, as volunteers, are designed to facilitate these workshops – that is, don’t tell anyone the answer; let them discover it for themselves. At last Wednesday’s workshop on motivation, myself and Lizzie had all of the above; and more.

(thick, adj. – fat, dense, crowded, vicious, stupid) The workshop, which was for the teachers from two of the schools where I work, had started really well. Group 1 had just finished presenting their ideas drawn on a sheet of flip-chart paper. As group two were putting the finishing touches to their presentation, a young eager member of group 3 jumped in and went to put their page on the board. The tallest and thickest member of Group 2, let’s call him Bernard, took exception to the audacity of the queue jumper and words were said.

Fair enough I thought, though to take offence in a country where the general rule is that queues are there to be jumped was bizarre. Group 2 then took up their rightful position and the moment had passed; or so I thought. All of my HH training hadn’t prepared me for what happened next.

(brawl, n. /vb. noisy fight) Five minutes later, Group 2 had just finished to a warm round of applause and the queue jumper was back getting his presentation ready. Next thing Bernard got up, more words were exchanged and quicker that you can spell facilitation, a gentle push was followed by a shove then a slap, a grab and a wrestle.

I attempted to intervene in what had become, in a matter of seconds, a full scale brawl with kicks, head butts and flying sandals. On they fought, and I couldn’t help thinking how great this was – I mean a part of me was thinking “Christ, this is the best workshop ever; it’s going to make for one hell of a story back home!”

However my VSO training kicked in and I though it better to follow the VSO humanitarian slogan of ‘Sharing Skills, Changing Lives’ rather than one of ‘Cracking Skulls, Taking Lives’. So in I jumped again to try and separate them. In my attempt I was all at once a fusion of a Copper Face Jack’s bouncer, a referee at a Bernard Dunne fight and the guy at the saloon in a John Wayne western who is always shouting “Hey you guys, break it up!”

Eventually, with help from four other teachers, the pair were separated and given time to cool down. As there was no bloodshed, the incident was deemed to be nothing more than “handbags” and everyone was happy to crack on as if nothing had happened. So we made a move to crack on, not thinking I’d see Bernard again who was by now outside under a tree considering a career move.

Before I could restart things however, Bernard’s principal was at the door calling him over, “Monsieur Sansana, on va recommencer!”
“Is this guy seriously coming back?” I wondered.

(amnesty n. general pardon) Sure enough, Bernard arrived over but not before I had a word with him. Whenever I’ve to deal with the aftermath of a fight at home between two students, I can always use the threat of calling the scrappers’ parents, a suspension or 20 lashes of the cane (hmm! perhaps I’ve been in Cameroon too long?). Dealing with teachers a different strategy is required.

Lack of professionalism, keeping the cool and don’t you dare try that again in my workshop formed the gist of my admonition. An apology to all was followed by a shaking of hands between the aggressors and all was, well, hunky dory in the world again.

(adapt vb. alter for new use, modify, change) On entering the foyer in Harborne Hall, there is a big eye catching poster designed to attract potential volunteers which reads ‘VSO is adaptable, are you?’ For my next workshop next week, together with the usual paraphernalia of flash cards, markers and sticky tape I’ll be bringing gum shields, ice packs and plenty of plasters.

And the topic of the next workshop? Conflict resolution obviously.

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Break time!

Sitting on the porch of the principal’s office last week during the break I couldn’t help but notice the aspects of school life that have, over time, become the ordinary, the everyday, dare I say, the mundane.

Three girls were playing with a rolled up rag ball. One of them was attempting to place a pile of their sandals and flips flops in order while the other two, at either end of the “court”, were throwing the ball to knock out the girl in the middle. The agility of the girl in the middle was amazing: she was dodging the ball while at the same time placing the sandals in a neat row. As soon as they hit her she was out and the whole thing started all over again.

At the same time 3 younger kids were licking home-made Mr. Freeze’s and the principal was giving out that they shouldn’t be eating them during the cold weather (35°+C) as they would be complaining of a headache later on.

Yet another group of kids we patiently crowded around the single tap that’s located in the yard. This single tap serves 725 students and 10 teachers and it is locked more often than not. When it is locked there is a slight drip and between breaks you’ll often see students licking the drops. Why does the tap need a lock? Well everybody in Cameroon pays for water from the mains and if the tap was left unlocked it would cost the school a fortune as all the locals would come to fill their buckets for free every evening.

The teachers were sitting beside me on the porch watching the kids – no cup of coffee, no biscuits, no lunch of any sort. Tell that to the ASTI or the TUI. The capacity of these people to go hours without food never ceases to stagger me.

At the end of the break one of the teachers called the nearest student within earshot and told him to go and ring the bell. The bell? When you think of a bell you might picture a red button, or a hand held “Hear ye! Hear ye!” bell a town crier would use or maybe even a Swiss cowbell they use in, well, Switzerland. The answer is none of the above; the bell consisted of an upturned lorry rim which the student hit with a stone.

Not ordinary, not mundane…just everyday!

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22 quick reminders that I'm back...

Almost a month back in Cameroon and it’s easy to recognise you’re back when:

1. As you’re leaving for work one morning and the temperature is already over 32°, one of your neighbours kids who is about 4 years old comes up to you and starts licking the cold condensation on the outside of your water bottle which you’ve just been taken out of the fridge and put on your bicycle carrier.
2. All your fresh guavas must be washed in bleach before eating them.
3. The Muslim call to prayer wakes you at half four in the morning; and again at half five.
4. You go to the local print shop and starting chatting to the guy there who says he hasn’t seen you in a while and the rest of it. Then you explain that you’ve been back in Ireland for the past few months and ask him how he’s been. He replies that he’s good and he’s just had two children. You congratulate him and ask how the twins are keeping. He replies that they’re not twins as he has two wives.
5. The students at primary school are still sitting on the floor.
6. There’s no mention of An Bord SNIP Nua or NAMA…it ceases to matter!
7. You have to filter 8 litres of water a day just to avoid your body shrivelling up like a prune in 43° heat.
8. There are no Christmas ads on TV.
9. Beans and beignets from the street are one of your 5 a day.
10. After spending one hour trying to get your front door lock open, you go looking for some oil from the local shopkeeper, Bashyru. He gives you some petrol in a vegetable oil bottle with which to dose the lock, but to no avail. You return to the shop where Bashyru then takes a needle and syringe from behind the fresh bread and hands it another guy sitting outside who comes back to help you. On the way back to the house he says that with the change in weather (the nights have started to be a lot cooler) everybody is getting sick; even the locks are sick. He then proceeds to inject the lock with petrol and 5 minutes later you’re back inside your house.
11. You pass a Sunday morning at the Chadian border happily watching the car ferry.
12. People aren’t talking about X-factor or The Apprentice and the only time the words “reality” and “TV” are found in the same sentence is when you say “The reality is I don’t have a TV!”
13. The Larium dreams return.
14. « On est ensemble » means “Yes that’s a great idea provided you do all the work!”
15. You pay 200f entry into a night club at 4 o’clock in the afternoon to watch the Cameroon v. Morocco World Cup qualifier on a big screen with 200 other locals and lose 2kgs in sweat alone just waiting for the match to come on. In the end, due to technical difficulties, the match is not shown at all and you leave a shrivelled prune.
16. You get back to find that one of your colleagues has died.
17. Helping a school to buy second-hand school books on the black-market for their teachers makes them extraordinarily happy.
18. Your scheduled Mothers’ Association meeting at 8am on a Saturday starts at 10.20am.
20. You shake, on average, at least 60 hands a day.
21. « J’arrive » means I’ll get there when it suits me and no sooner!
22. You have time to write stupid blog entries!

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Dopplegangers in Yagoua

« Lloris !, bonne arrivée, c’est comment ? » came the shout on my first day back in Yagoua from a gang of young lads who hang out on the same corner all day every day.

“Why are they still calling me Lloris? I have to get a look at this guy” I resolved as I wandered back from the market after stocking up on onions, tomatoes and le vache qui rit – how I missed that processed, tin foiled, triangulated cheese while I was back in cheddar country.

I had been hearing “Lloris” for months from these lads before I copped they were talking to me. Now you have to appreciate that being the only male “Nassara” in town I wasn’t used to being called anything other than Nassara or le Blanc. Anyhow, these guys are football mad and I’ll stop the odd time to catch up on European results while they use the chat as an opportunity to remind me of Liverpool’s woes. When I finally copped it was me they were talking to and quizzed them as to why they were calling me Lloris, I was told it was because I resembled the Lyon goalkeeper. Fair enough I thought, and didn’t think much more of it. Not, at least, until last Saturday night when I was watching the Ireland v France World Cup playoff match.

What’s this about the internet and live football in Yagoua?’ I suppose you’re wondering. Had I not led you to believe that life was tough out here? Well it is in no small measure that thanks to France’s imperialistic tendencies in the late 19th century the match was broadcast live throughout Cameroon on TV5 Monde. I wouldn’t have had a chance of seeing it if we’d drawn, say, Russia in the playoffs or if, indeed, the French stayed away from the “Scramble for Africa”.

The match was shown in a local’s backyard under the stars and there was a pretty sizeable crowd in to gloat at the hoped-for misfortune of the French. Cameroon had, earlier that day, secured their place in South Africa so the locals were waiting for a French slip-up. The 100f admission secured a seat on a bench not far from the bed sheet that hung on a wall at one end of the yard and, apart from the odd cricket landing on the screen, the reception was perfect. All that was missing was a bit of Bill, Johnny and Eamon but despite the lack of analysis I felt right at home.

In fact I must have thought I was at home judging by the amount of expletives I was hurling towards the screen throughout the first half. Though, in hindsight, it mustn’t have been too bad as it didn’t seem to disturb the guys that were sleeping on the mats in front of me. After the first 20 minutes of the game I suddenly began to notice Hugo Lloris’ name mentioned in the commentary and realised that this guy not only kept nets for Lyon but for France too. I had to get a good look at my döppelganger and see if there were any similarities.

It wasn’t until near the end of the first half that he appeared (shows the number of chances that we created) and, alas and alack, he’s white, has dark hair aaaaaand that’s about it! In fact there are more differences than similarities: he’s a lot better in goal than I am, judging by the save he pulled off to deny Glen Whelan a late equaliser; he probably speaks better French than I do and he’s more confident of seeing (and even playing with) his country in next year’s World Cup than I am right now – though I’d settle for seeing, after 100+ caps I think Shay Given’s place is unassailable.

So I’ve my 100 francs set aside for tomorrow night’s second leg and am hoping that the electricity won’t cut out so I can watch the match in hope of a miracle. At John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961 (it’s great having google here in Yags!!!) he famously spoke the immortal words “ask not what you’re country can do for you but what you can do for your country”. Now if Hugo Lloris decides to flap a couple of balls tomorrow night which will gift Kevin Doyle a goal or two then I will quite happily take all the ridicule that will undoubtedly come my way from the lads on the street on Thursday.

Allez les verts!

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