An Earl in Cameroon 2008

My Snap of the Day

2010-03-04T04:14:00.000-08:00

Whenever I struggle to come up with something to write about life in Cameroon it usually means that the Cameroonian everyday has become somewhat mundane, and I’ve ceased to notice the things that are out of my ordinary. So, every once and I while, I need to remind myself to put on the Nassara goggles, look around and tell myself “that’s not normal!”

Take yesterday evening. I was in town sitting outside Hamidou’s boutique near the carrefour Totale just watching the world go by and I noticed a sand truck. Now before I paint my cultural snapshot I need to make the distinction between which Hamidou I was visiting as there are two Hamidous that have boutiques.

It was, as Lizzie christened him, “John Lennon” Hamidou’s shop as opposed to “The Other” Hamidou’s shop that I was chilling outside. He’s known as “John Lennon” Hamidou because he’s tall, wears roundish glasses and look like a shaven headed Beatle…well kinda!

Evening is the best time to sit outside Hamidou’s as the front of his shop is in shade and the town comes alive as the evening temperatures drop a little. Yesterday evening there was no shortage of the Cameroonian ordinary. A pig fell off the back of a moto; the guy in the shop next door was busy painting signs for next Monday’s International Women’s Day; a blind man was been led around by his son looking for some spare change; kids were on their way home from school; the crazy guy was in his usual spot on the roundabout (Yagoua has two…roundabouts that is!); a women stopped to buy Chadian phone credit from Hamidou; someone else was on the search for the change of a 5,000 CFA note…

In the middle of it all the big old sand truck pulled up. The truck was blue, the cab had a bonnet like the type Kris Kristofferson drove in the 1970’s film “Convoy” and sitting on top of the sand was a young women and her toddler.

As soon as the truck pulled up, a guy in the cab jumped down in time to catch the kid as he was practically thrown down by his mother. She then hoisted her bag to a second crew member who materialised from the cab before leaping about 10ft to the ground. The guys threw the kid and the bag back at her, jumped into the cab and were gone.

In the length of time it took the driver to put the truck into 2^nd gear, the mother had dusted herself down, re-adjusted her pagne, strapped the kid to her back, grabbed her bag, placed it on her head and was off about her business.

Ok, maybe it’s not an image worthy of National Geographic, yet when was the last time you saw a ROADSTONE lorry do the job of a Bús Eiréann bus?

Not the ordinary, not the mundane, just the everyday.

A few thoughts struck me as the mother strode off into the haze of the fumes from the truck’s exhaust pipe. I reckoned that the woman probably had come quite a distance as most people in the surrounding villages usually walk or ride a bike to town. Secondly, the three guys sitting in the cab would have probably spelt chivalry “Me”. I also couldn’t help wondering what the kid thought sitting atop the coolest sandpit in history. And what was the sand being used for? Well I’d like to think a crèche, but answers on a postcard please.

Danay Express

2010-02-10T08:49:00.000-08:00

“Take the Danay Express, when your life’s in a mess

It’ll make you smile

All human life is here

From the feeble old dear to the screaming child…”

(To the tune of The National Express by The Divine Comedy)

In well over a year here I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve taken the Danay Express bus service. Put it this way, since coming to Cameroon I’ve never driven a car and I’ve only ever taken the occasional lift in the VSO 4x4 (I’ve learned that an NGO isn’t a real NGO unless it has several big 4 wheel drives); so most of my time spent travelling has been with Danay.

If I do however, take an average of 2 trips to Maroua per month with a round trip being about 400km; that’s 800km per month. In 13 months that’s 10,400km sitting on the Danay; if you factor in the trips to and from N’Gaoundère to catch the train then it’s well over 15,000km. I can safely say that on each and every one of those trips there has been something to “make me smile”. So, in case there are those of you out there who may wish to come to Yagoua one day, then there are certain things I feel I should share about the Danay Express experience.

The first thing to know about catching a Danay bus is the boarding system. Before buying your ticket you need to have a long chat with the Danay ladies behind the ticket desk (neither myself, Lizzie or Bronwyn know their names so they’re just known as the Danay ladies). You then drop your bag roughly in the vicinity of where the bus will park, you take a seat and you wait. Then you wait some more. And some days you’ll have to wait a bit longer. There are no timetables or clocks anywhere in Danay. As Yagoua is a terminus, then it’s certain that a bus will arrive at some stage though be prepared to wait anything up to 2½ hours…make sure your ipod is charged and you have a good book.

When the bus does arrive, it disgorges its passengers and baggage and reverses into position ready to hare off to Maroua again. The next step (and one of the most entertaining) is loading the baggage. M. Serena is the no-nonsense guy who calls out passengers names and yells at them to “deposez vos bagages”. Now baggage is a very loose description – cargo would be better. I’ve seen all of the following, and more, hoisted up onto the roof of the bus: chickens, goats, sheep, sacks of rice, sheet metal, bicycles, motorbikes, lorry tyres, mattresses, generators – the rule is if it can be lifted by 4 porters then it goes up.

When the bags are almost up, M. Serena will then stand by the door, shout out the passengers names and hand them their tickets. Theoretically it’s first come, first served but it also depends on how important you are. We generally reserve our tickets the day before so we’re always one of the first handful on. That’s not neo-colonialist; it’s just being smart.

You see there are four seats per row on the bus yet there are always five people squeezed in…always. As one of the seats is a smaller folding seat in the aisle then it’s good to get on early and get a window seat. This avoids having your arse spread over two seats that are either unlevel or miles apart. It also reduces the chances of being shoved into the sweaty armpit of a Cameroonian who has draped his arm around the back of the chair to make more room. On the odd time I’ve found myself on an aisle seat I’ve been known to drape an arm over the back of the seat of my fellow passenger. You soon overcome any issues of personal space out here – you have to.

Once the last of the sheep have been tied down, the tarpaulin is lashed to the roof rack by the motor-boy (a young lad responsible for taking off and putting on the bags at the various stops along the way), you’ve squeezed yourself into your seat and waved to the Danay ladies, you’re off.

"On the Danay Express there’s a jolly hostess selling crisps and tea

She’ll provide you with drinks and theatrical winks for a sky high fee

Miniskirts were in style when she danced down the aisle back in 63

But it’s hard to get by when your arse is the size of a small country…"

Ok, here’s where the Danay Express actually differs from Neil Hannon’s National Express. There are no crisps or tea. All forms of refreshment are bought through the window of the bus at the various stops along the way. The gateaux in Guiguidis are the best on route, at the Danay in Kaélé there’s a fridge that sells coke, Top Pamplemousse and Djino (both artificially flavoured Cameroonian soft drinks). At Magada junction the bus is always surrounded by young lads selling peanuts, yoghurt, water or dates as if their life depended on it – and really, it does.

The on-bus entertainment is varied. You could spend 3 hours listening to the driver’s choice of music that could be anything from Arabic chant-like music to Celine Dion, from Phil Collins to Senegalese rap and from Craig David to the humble Shakira. The worst I’ve yet to experience was James Blunt’s You’re beautiful four times in a half hour. God bless Apple for inventing the ipod.

The entertainment is not limited to music though. Look around and might be lucky to find yourself in a staring contest with an upside-down chicken looking at you through the rear window. On one occasion I spent a happy 5 minutes watching the rain stream down the window until I realised that it was December, in the middle of the 9 month dry season, and the “rain” I was watching was actually a sheep relieving himself on the roof.

The poor Chadians who travel can also offer a diversion whenever the bus gets stopped at a contrôle. At each contrôle, a uniformed soldier will get on the bus, wish everyone a good day and ask for their identity cards. It is quite often the Chadians who will be discreetly told to get off the bus for not having their IDs in order. Then they’ll be taken over to a little hut where they then discreetly slip the soldier a 1,000 franc note. They always check the Nassara’s ID as well and are just curious to know where you’re from, so don’t be worried about having to contact the Department of Foreign Affairs or Amnesty International.

Be prepared for stops. Apart from the contrôles, there are stops for prayer time, for road tolls and for the very rare breakdown (only twice in 15 000km). On the plus side, there are no traffic lights, there are no traffic jams or indeed there is practically no traffic at all.

Danay Express is more than just a bus company. It is Yagoua’s main link with the outside world. It connects families; it supplements soldiers’ incomes; it provides a customer base for yoghurt sellers; it’s regularly hired for football matches, weddings and funerals and, above all, it entertains. It beats the National Express, or Bus Eireann for that matter, hands down. I mean where else can you perspire and spend 3 hours happily squashed against a lady with an arse the size of San Marino.

All together now……..

"When you’re sad and feeling blue

With nothing better to do, don’t just sit their feeling stressed

Take a trip on the Danay Express…"

La Coopérative Scolaire

2010-01-18T09:04:00.000-08:00

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?

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

2010-01-12T08:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Do they know it's Christmas?

2009-12-12T07:20:00.000-08:00

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,

Brawling Workshops

2009-12-04T10:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Break time!

2009-11-28T02:17:00.000-08:00

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!

22 quick reminders that I'm back...

2009-11-26T11:03:00.000-08:00

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!

GC

Dopplegangers in Yagoua

2009-11-17T11:41:00.000-08:00

« 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!

GC

Lá Fhéile Pádraig…Cameroonian style!

2009-03-22T03:31:00.001-07:00

“No electricity! What do you mean they’re cutting the electricity tomorrow? Well b@ll*x anyway; I still haven’t printed out the questions or answer sheets for the Paddy’s Day pub quiz tomorrow night!”

So it was with a mad rush that I jumped on the next passing moto last Friday night and hightailed it to the VSO office in an attempt to save the inaugural Soirée St. Patrick. I mightened have been so bothered only our plans would be plastered all over an Irish national newspaper on the following Tuesday.

On arriving at the office the side gate was locked so I hopped the wall and was greeted by two security guards who were none too pleased seeing as it was after 10pm. I explained my case and said that the work I’d to do was of the upmost national importance (ok, I didn’t use the word ‘upmost’ as I don’t know what it is in French, so I probably said « très »). They assented begrudgingly and after having a fight with the printer I successfully got the necessary “Top Secret” paperwork printed.

Having just read over this paragraph, this blog entry is beginning to sound like the opening chapter of a Tom Clancy novel…it wasn’t as frenetic as that…it was more John Grisham I think.

‘So what was so “Top Secret”?’ I hear you yawn. Well some of the questions posed were along the lines of: What is the longest river in Ireland?; St Patrick is said to have banished what from the shores of Ireland?; The Irish author Jonathan Swift wrote what literary classic?; The Irish Famine in 1845 was caused by the failure of what crop?

All very 3rd class stuff I admit but you have to remember who we were dealing with – a bunch of Canadian, French and English volunteers with a smattering of locals whose knowledge of Ireland is haphazard to say the least. Some Cameroonians think that Ireland is somewhere in North America yet others do remember Mattie Holland’s equaliser for Ireland in the 2002 World Cup match.

Apart from a couple of rounds of Irish questions there were also a few with a Cameroonian twist and, of course, the obligatory picture round. Rather than spend hours on the web searching for pictures of Brian Cowen, Brian O’Driscoll and Brian Bóru, I spent hours doctoring pictures of the other vols instead which was a big hit. The winning team were a bunch of vols who knew their local knowledge. Thankfully the usual pub quiz sharks from Ballaghaderreen never showed up so the round of drinks for the winners stayed locally.

To cap the night off there was a bit of brawl among the locals and we had a sing-song that didn’t last very long. Despite the best efforts of Lizzie on the guitar there wasn’t a sinner who could sing a decent Irish song even when the words of Fiddler’s Green were put in front of them. Mea Culpa. Always had a sneaky suspicion that my talents lay elsewhere…it’s no longer a suspicion.

So where do we take our St. Patrick’s Day celebrations from here? Well we’ve a year to give Kiltimagh and Boston a run for their money. The Cameroonians love a good parade so if I can convince the army to show up, throw in a few dodgy West African Presidents dressed in green and call the whole thing “Operation Pádraig - highly classified”; then I think we’d have the makings of a real Tom Clancy style St. Patrick’s Day.

“Waiter, there’s no fly in my soup!”

2009-03-12T23:41:00.000-07:00

The menu board on the wall of the Super Restaurant in Yagoua lists at least 25 different dishes. A great variety you may think but a closer inspection reveals there are actually a limited number of dishes available; the variety is all in the combinations. For instance, according to the menu, you can order beef and rice, beef and chips, beef and bread, beef and macaroni, beef and plantains – plantains being long green bananas that are delicious when fried. Apart from beef there is also (again, according to the menu) chicken, liver and kidneys with the same side combinations.

“Right,” I thought to myself last week as the boo-boo clad waiter approached, “what do I feel like?”
“Monsieur?”
“Je vais prendre poulet plantains, s’il vous plait!”
“Il n’y en a pas!”
“D’accord, poulet riz?”
“Il n’y en a pas!”
“Ahh! Foie pommes?”

And again, with his inscrutable face which suggested that he could keep this up all day, he answered “Il n’y en a pas!” Time to change tactic, I reckoned. “Alors, qu’est ce que vous’avez?” And so the secret to ordering in the Super Restaurant was discovered. Basically, you need to ignore the menu and just ask what they have. Last time out, it was beef and chips, beef and bread or an omelette, and that was it. Whoever neatly hand-painted the extensive menu on the huge blackboard was wasting their time.

The food here is pretty good and most of the time I’ll rustle up some concoction or other at home. There are only two restaurants and a plethora of chop houses in Yags. With the narrow variety available on the menus and the need to monitor the amount of barbecued beef I eat, I’m not left with much option but to cook. So what keeps me going? Well, it all depends on the season and what you can get at the market. Mostly you can get onions, tomatoes, chillis, rice, spuds (yes, real spuds), lots of different herbs and spices, kidney beans, carrots, cucumbers, lettuce, and different fruit depending on the season – oranges have just been replaced by mangos as the fruit of choice.

As the Grahame Cleary Cookbook could be written on the back of any parish newsletter, my culinary skills extend to about 4 different dishes. Stews, curries (same dish just different types of spices), stir fries, pasta, salads and pancakes are pretty much the staple. Cooking is done on my luxurious gas cooker though there are times when I crave lasagne and hanker after an oven. There are other vols who use what’s called a dutch oven; which involves putting sand in the bottom of a large saucepan together with empty tin cans though I haven’t gotten around to trying that yet.

I have ventured to add meat occasionally to the stews and curries but it took me four months before I took a trip to the butchers. The butchers here are not like any butchers you get at home. No aprons, no little sinks with notices warning “This sink is for washing hands only!” and no cold storage. The Yagoua victuallers hang out in the market with nothing more than a butcher’s block, a couple of knives, half a (dead) cow and half a (live) hundred flies. Something to bear in mind the next time you’re taking that cellophane wrapped t-bone steak from the freezer in Super-Valu.

What finally persuaded me to take the dead bull by the horns was that after a few months eating meat in restaurants and chop houses I had no ill effects; when I wondered where this meat came from I had only one logical answer…the meat market. Having gone there regularly now, I have developed a tactic whereby I’ll pass through the row of butchers and select one where there is a reasonably big slab of meat and a reasonably small number of flies. I’ll order my 500 frs worth of meat and then I’ll watch the butcher closely to check that the meat he puts on the battered scales is in fact meat. I’m not that knowledgeable about the different sides of beef you can get but I can tell the difference between meat, gristle and offal and it pays to check. Nothing is wasted and even Pedigree Chum would have trouble finding leftovers to include in their cans of dog food; incidentally, I’ve never seen hungrier dogs in my life.

So having honed my meat buying skills I now see nothing out of the ordinary in a butcher chopping up slabs of beef on the side of a log of timber with nothing but an axe. It’s what people do, it’s how they live and it doesn’t seem to do them (or me – touche le bois!) a bit of harm…provided the meat is cooked thoroughly – (just doing my bit for the Food Safety Authority in case they’re reading).

So, word is out – I’m not going hungry in Africa and I don’t think you would either. If you do happen to find yourself in Yagoua any time soon and are looking for somewhere to eat then you could do worse than calling into the Super Restaurant. It does a good beef and chips (when it’s on the menu) and thus far I’ve yet to find a fly in my soup!
GC

The Trans-Cameroonian Railway

2009-01-16T08:35:00.000-08:00

One of the perks of taking a year out in Africa is that you rely completely on public transport to get around. It’s mad but I haven’t driven a car in over 4 and a half months if you exclude the day we went to visit the Crab Doctor and I had to jump start Bashyr’s car. Public transport here consists of an assortment of trains, buses, minibuses, taxis, bush taxis and mototaxis. Ok, for those of you who wish to split hairs, taxis don’t strictly fall under the definition of public transport but if you can have 5 people (excluding the driver) squashed together in a shared yellow Toyota taxi, then that’s public enough for me.

Over the Christmas holidays I took myself off to Ghana but before I had the pleasure of buckling up with Virgin Nigeria I first had to find my way down to Doala. The journey down south involved a 10 hour bus trip with Danay Express (my local bus company which will get a whole blog of its own at some stage!) to N’Gaoundère where I had to catch the train to Yaoundé and then another 4 hour bus trip to Doala.

The train, I’ve read, is called the Trans-Cameroonian Railway but for a country that is twice the size of the UK the journey is only 600km; for those of you imperialists that’s 373 miles. The thing is, the journey took 15 hours…THAT’S 25 MILES AN HOUR! I’d nearly cycle quicker.

Still, what it lacks in speed, it makes up for in character…I was just about to write comfort there for a second but just checked myself on time! It’s a night train which leaves just after 6pm and there’s an option of 3 types of ticket – a 1st class couchette, a 1st class seat or a 2nd class hard, timber, arse-numbing bench. I opted for the a seat in 1st class as after a trip in a sleeper carriage last year in Vietnam with two scans, I wasn’t prepared to be cooped up in a cabin for15 hours; nor was I too happy about squeezing onto a bench with mother’s, babies, soldiers and happy go lucky “voleurs” who would see me, or more importantly my bags, as an early Christmas present.

The journey to be fair, both ways, was comfortable enough and the food tasty too. The train stops frequently for whatever sort of delay – the Cameroonian equivalent of Iarnrod Eireann’s “leaves on the track” I suppose. It also stops at various stations along the way where it is an experience to see everything from bananas, water, mandarins and batons (which are sticks of manioc wrapped in banana leaves) being bought and sold through the windows of the carriages. Seeing so many women and children out (for them) in the cold at 4am making hard sales just shows how much these people depend on the train, which passes once a day in each direction, to make a living…that’s their job!

Apart from all the stops, my fellow traveller’s also ensured that the time was never long. The Cameroonians are great talkers and love nothing more than a good heated discussion at all hours of the night. Topics rarely included the weather, never politics but instead focussed on things like fidelity, love and God. I pretended to sleep.

Sleep though came easier than expected. However, it was hard to close my eyes at times when there was a soldier standing not 10 feet away with his machine gun slung around his neck with only a piece of old rope keeping it in place.

On arriving in Yaoundé, a battalion of soldiers couldn’t have stopped the hordes of porters who climbed aboard as the train pulled into the station. These guys were amazing to watch – they were carrying two suitcases at a time on their heads while carrying another bag in one hand. They made a mockery of the suitcases with wheels and the ergonomically designed rucksacks. Incidentally, I carried my own rucksack…at least as far as the nearest battered, yellow taxi!

A Trip to the Crab Doctor

2008-11-23T01:04:00.000-08:00

Went on a day trip to Rhumsiki yesterday. It’s about 3 hours by car so we were on the road good and early. Rhumsiki is famous for its unusual landscape – lots of large rocky peaks sticking up out of the desert like fingers (typically many phallic references were also made which made Ruth blush no end). Rhumsiki is a small village on the lip of a valley which wanders around and about the large rocky outcrops. There are other villages dotted around the valley and it is towards them we headed on our 2 hour trek. It was great to get out in the open countryside again. It was pretty easy going and we arrived back in Rhumsiki happy and ravenous. The slices of Tomazi’s pizza which we brought with us were devoured in no time at all. Afterwards, watered and fed we went off to visit the Crab Doctor.

Now before your mind wonders too much; let me explain. The crab doctor is not a medical professional who cures people of uncomfortable itches in their nether regions. Oh no. He is an ancient and “wise” witch doctor who allows people to ask him one question and then gives them an answer…a bit of a fortune teller, so to speak. Well in fact he is only the intermediary; it is the crab who tells him and he passes on the word. When I heard the description I couldn’t but go.

We were greeted by an old, rheumy eyed man sitting outside a mud hit wearing filthy clothes and whose skins was like cow hide that’s been left to dry and shrivel in the sun for years. He had two clay pots in front of him; one held the fresh water crab, the other was filled with sand. Taking 5 small stones which represented Africa, places abroad, the youngest in the group, the oldest in the group and… sorry, I can’t remember what the last stone signified, wasn’t paying attention. He arranged the stones in the sand in a circle but not before spitting on each one. He liked to spit a lot. Then he asked if there were any questions.

As it was my first time dabbling in black magic (never really liked the chocolate sweets either; more of a Quality Street man) I spent a bit of time beforehand trying to decide on the question I was going to ask. Everything from “will Liverpool win the league?” to “when will the electricity in my house be switched back on?” were all considered but deemed unsuitable. In the end I asked him if I would stay in Cameroon longer than a year. After taking the crab and spitting on it, he placed it into the clay pot with the sand and stones and covered it. Then he waited. Now, afterwards we talked amongst ourselves about his “aura” and the vibe he gave off which sounds crazy but while we were waiting everyone felt that they had to be respectful and attentive…we didn’t want to anger the crab! After sufficient time had elapsed the crab doctor lifted the lid and poked the crab a bit. Then lifting it out of the clay pot he gave his answer which was translated by our guide.

Afterwards, having answered all the questions he “blessed” us by touching our feet and hands with one of the stones and then spat on us! Rhumsiki’s answer to holy water I suppose.

Oh yeah, the crabs answer? Well it appears that I won’t be staying in Cameroon any longer than a year but that I will come back one day to visit on holiday or to work. So there you have it. The crab of Rhumsiki has spoken. Anyone planning a visit anytime soon better get their arse in gear. Time is a slipping away.

"Gauche, gauche, gauche, droite, gauche..."

2008-11-21T10:02:00.000-08:00

Although I’m not here to teach, with a bit of free time on my hands I decided to volunteer (yeah, haven’t had enough of that word yet!) to teach English in one of the schools once a week. So last Tuesday I took up some chalk and recommenced my fight against ignorance with a group of 80 bemused and amused Cameroonian students.

Now in advance, I had observed an English class last Friday and taken a few notes. I also talked to the teacher and found out what he had planned to do next. He said that I could stick to the curriculum or do whatever I wanted. I decided to mix it a bit and was planning to do the parts of the face and the five senses (to cover the curriculum) and add in colours in respect of hair and eyes. Good work I thought to myself. However, thinking about it a bit more I realised that I wouldn’t have got very far as every kid I would have asked what colour their hair and eyes were, would have answered black and brown. C'est tout!

And if that wasn’t bad enough if I was to demonstrate on myself I would have ended up with the same result. Thankfully it was one of the few classes in my career (hope Batt O’Keefe isn’t reading this) where I decided to prepare in advance rather than just wing it and changed my approach.

As it turned out however, all my preparations were in vain as they didn’t understand a word I was saying so spent the class teaching basic greetings and classroom vocab. Winging it is definitely the way to go Batt!

It was strange to be in front of so many students but you just get on with it as they do. All of the students bar nine were sitting on the floor. The nine lucky ones (they happened to be the biggest students in the room) were sitting three at a time on desks. There weren’t many books between them but they all had copies, pens and mini blackboards.

Entry into the classroom after break involved lining up in two lines outside the door and waiting for the teacher to start. This is where it all turned a bit boot-campish. The teacher called “left”, and the students shouted “left” and stood to attention while stamping their left foot. The procedure was repeated with the right and alternated for a couple of minutes until the teacher/sergeant major called for both feet, whereby the students started marching on the spot and singing. On the teachers signal everyone marched into the classroom in the most orderly and musical fashion I’ve ever seen.

Am looking forward to working with the students over the next few weeks. Reckon I’ll learn a lot and once I learn the words to the marching song the students in Coola Post Primary School won’t know what’s hit them.

GC

Reality Bytes!

2008-11-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

Deux mois déjà!

Just talking this evening to Lizzie, another vol, tonight about how quickly you get settled in and how the novelty wears off. The humdrum exists everywhere. I was scratching my head all week wondering what I could write here that would shed some light on my experience here and came up with very little. I didn’t have any little anecdotes to share or axes to grind. Is that how quickly acclimatisation happens, we wondered?

Sure, I'm not near accepted nor do I understand the culture, the people or the country. Still there are certain things that I don't really bat an eyelid at anymore. Like what? Well, - and all of a sudden a blog topic emerges - in no apparent order:

Being called Nassara 2 million times a day - the kids here have a sixth sense for when I leave my house. Seconds after sticking my head out the gate of my concession I'll hear "Nassara, Bonjour" from kids as young as 2. Nassara refers to the colour of my skin; apparently I stick out a bit here!

Going running at 6.15am - ok, the reason I don't bat an eyelid is because my eyelids are welded firmly shut and don't open until 15 minutes into the run when I see my tree and termite mound which marks the turning point (too early - won't get used to that).

Killing crickets and cockroaches (though I still get a sadistic boyhood pleasure in that - nothing comes between me and my sleep.)

Hissing at people to get their attention...waiters, motodrivers, traders selling beignets. I'm not a very good hisser (yes that's hisser, it's not a typo) yet but am working at it. I've seen (or rather heard) a Cameroonian friend successfully hiss at a motodriver about 100 yards away, even though the same moto had passed me 20 seconds before as I was waving one hand in the air and holding a motorbike helmet in the other!

Having the nearest internet 210km away - I'm like a heroin junkie every fortnight when I arrive in Maroua to get my fix of bytes.

Animals wandering everywhere - a guy during the week explained to me that we imprison our animals in the West (we place them in fields behind fences!) while here in Cameroon they are free to roam anywhere. And they do. Goats and sheep graze the streets while hens regularly waltz into my yard to clean it of the bits of spaghetti that were in with the dish water I had thrown out the night before. Pigs, though, are the Tony Soprano’s of waste disposal. They eat everything except for plastic bags. If anyone is looking for an idea for 'Dragon's Den' then invent a plastic bag that is palatable for a pig. It would clean up the severe litter problem that exists here and you'd be on it's bloody back. And it would all be legal, already!

Not having a kitchen sink.

Ca y est,

GC

A Man in Yags

2008-10-12T01:47:00.000-07:00

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.

GC