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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