My Snap of the Day

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.

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Danay Express

“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…"

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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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