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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