A Man in Yags

Nearly two week into my life in Yagoua (or as it’s affectionately known Yags) and almost 6 into my life in Cameroon and I’m settling in well. Finally moved out of the Baptist Mission and have been busy moving into my new house – hanging mozzie nets, collecting furniture from the bus station, hanging curtains, filtering water and killing cockroaches and crickets.

Let’s start with the latter! When W.B. Yeats wrote about living on Innisfree and surrounding himself with bees, linnets, bean-rows, heather and singing crickets; he hadn’t a clue what he was talking about – either that or he was deaf. I’m convinced he never slept in a house, or a small cabin for that matter, that contained a family of crickets. They’re fine when they’re outside cricketing up a tree but when your bedroom doorframe hosts Jimeney and his extended family, then the peace doesn’t really come dropping all that slowly. In fact the only peace that existed after I launched my attack against Mr. J. Cricket and Co. with my Pif-Paf powder was of the “May They Rest In” kind. Job done.

My now ‘cricket free’ house is what everyone calls around here a concession. It’s a 2 bed house, where the kitchen/dining room/living room is all one. One bedroom opens up directly to the small yard which serves as my front (or is back?) yard where I get my buckets of water. I share the yard with a family who live behind me and every hour of the day there’s someone in and out. Until I bought a funky set of gold curtains for my door and window I had plenty of curious looks and stares. Now it is only the curtains that are getting the curious stares. My own room is about as big as my one at home and it’s ensuite with a real toilet that flushes and a shower that showers…a luxury in these parts.

The town itself is about as big as, let me see, I don’t know it’s really hard to compare…ok, let’s say Roscommon town but without the roundabouts, two storey buildings, Morelli’s chipper, Dunnes or cars for that matter…ok, come to think about it, it’s not a bit like Roscommon. The only way of getting around is on the back of a moto or walk, which I do mostly for now. The streets are all covered in sand which will make it interesting when I get my hands on a bike. Work is about 2 miles away so that should be a nice sandy spin in the mornings, and a hot sweaty sandy spin home in the afternoons.

Work is going well, albeit at its own pace. Day one was a real baptism of fire. There was a “Journée Pedagogique” organised for all the primary teachers of the arrondissement. It started at about half 8 and the protocol was unbelievable…everyone in attendance had their name read by the inspector. Any teacher that hadn’t their name read out was then asked to come to the table and give their name. Then the mayor arrived and there were speeches and the national anthem was sung. Finally, the seminar started about 2 hours later.

Now when I say seminar I should say sermon. My boss sat behind a big table and preached for…wait for it…7 hours. I nearly died. I sat at the same table and was amazed how patient and attentive everyone was. They just listened and took notes and asked and answered the odd question. Still, at times I had to wonder where I was. A mother was there breast-feeding her baby; a dog waltzed in in the middle of proceedings, sniffed about a bit and was eventually ran; someone’s phone rang and was answered in front of everybody.

Now the best/worst thing of all is the capacity of these people to keep going without a break. During the entire day, which eventually finished at about half five, there was one twenty minute break for a cup of sweet tea and a bread roll. We got butter the first day but on day 2 (oh yes, there was a second day very similar to the first) there was no butter. Though was a little bit better prepared on day 2 and had a bottle of water and some energy bars with me.

I could’ve down with some energy bars last Saturday morning when I played my first game of football Cameroonian style. It was another experience all together. I came on at the start of the second half and ran around like a lunatic for the first 5 minutes without touching the ball. When the ball eventually arrived I ended up fluffing it. 3 minutes later I was running for a ball at full tilt when, without anybody near me, I fell flat on my face to the amusement and bemusement of half the town. Everyone kept saying “doucement, doucement”, and after 15 minutes I knew why. Playing on the sand was like playing football whilst wearing a pair of ski boots made of lead.

As the game went on “Le Blanc” (certainly no relation to the French World Cup winning star, Laurent) missed a couple of chances before redeeming himself and scoring a screamer from all of 2 yards. It was an experience to be repeated as I’m now a member of “les vieux lions” (a poor cousin of the Cameroonian national team known as the Indominatable Lions) and have bought myself a new pair of boots. Just wait until I get them playing GAA and reciting Yeats’ poetry.

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