Wuna wan for len for talk pidgin?

I was thrilled when I got recommended for and then given a Peace Corps placement in “French-speaking West Africa” (can you tell where this is going?). Finally, years of slaving over French grammar and pushing through choppy, frustrating conversations had gotten me to the point where I love conversing in French, picking up new phrases, and practicing what I’ve at long last gotten a grasp on. My weeks in training this fall confirmed how much fun it is to greet school children in sing-songy French, and how much more intriguing even mundane conversations are when you’re practicing your new skills. I feel friendlier in French too – it’s sort of like it’s all a fun game, you are not really yourself, just playing along in a shinier, light-hearted universe where everything is stimulating and a bit more chic because, voila, it’s French!

And then, life decided to play a little joke on me, and though I was one of the few volunteers who came in with decent French under my belt, I got paired to work with an NGO in the small Anglophone region of Cameroon (crash history course, both England and France colonized here, though it’s dominated now by the French influence at every level). After a complete breakdown (I wish I was kidding) that I was not going to get to speak French after all, (and, while I was at it: why am I here? why this random town in this random country?? for two years???? why did you have to send ME to the Anglophone region when I told you at every point how much I was looking forward to working in French and becoming fluent!) Well, they tell you when you join the Peace Corps that it’s all about flexibility – coming back from my disappointment at being one of the few going to this marginalized Anglophone region was the biggest personal challenge I’ve faced here so far, and it’s one I keep working at every day.

So, life must be a breeze then, without the language barrier that is an infamous part of cross-cultural relations? Ha. HA. Enter: Pidgin. Instead of the English you and I are used to, they speak this mix of English, French, German and Portuguese vocab – most words are English, but it’s still a whole different ball game. Pidgin is thought to have originated when coastal Cameroonians from dozens of different tribes were brought together on the slave plantations of colonizing Europeans. Without a communal language, they listened to the Europeans and picked up some of their words, giving it their own flavor and keeping it simple and practical so that it could be easily learned and adapted in this impromptu situation of necessity. The dialect stuck, though today it is looked down on by many as a “rotten” uneducated English that is a broken, lowly version of a sophisticated language. Some groups in Cameroon are trying to get it abolished, and at schools and universities you see signs such as “Pidgin is like AIDS, avoid it!” and” English, your passport to the world; Pidgin, a ticket to nowhere” To most it remains an important part of their culture, though their love/hate relationship with it is apparent – I’m often told I should not spend time learning this “incorrect” English speak, and yet it’s what they are speaking every day, so if I want to communicate, especially with older adults who did not go to school, Pidgin is my key.

Educated adults and students also speak what they call “Grammar”, which is closer to our English and what I end up speaking most for now, but there is still a gaping disconnect. I’m actually relieved whenever someone can speak French – my French is far from polished, but for simple conversations it’s ironically so much easier to get by in French than in Pidgin/English. I emphasize every word and use phrases such as “you people” instead of “you” and “your own, his own” instead of “yours, his”, yet still I normally have to repeat myself twice even just for something like “do you have powdered milk?” It’s exhausting, bizarre, and yet a new layer in my ongoing fascination with the evolution of language. The joke in this region is that instead of learning a new language, volunteers here must un-learn every correct grammar rule of their own language and patch things back together to get by. Seeing this language as it’s own and not judging it as a crude, incorrect version of English takes a bit of time, but it’s fun to get into it, and just think of the awesome phrases I’ll be able to whip out at cocktail parties! I’ve even started speaking what I call Pinglais, a combination of all three…

ex. (I don’t find it) + (I no find y) + (Je ne le trouve pas) = I no le find pas.

…Now I’m really in trouble.

Below, the first bit of the speech I gave in Pidgin at our swearing - in ceremony, a few phrases that give you a taste, and an interesting quick read on the politics of Pidgin in Cameroon: http://www.dibussi.com/files/politics_of_pidgin_in_cameroon.pdf

Excerpt:

A dis salaute wuna!

Dis be BIG day for we, for sika say, today we be big volunteer-dem for Peace Corps! We don work plenty for dis day for plenty week-dem, an we don dream for dis day for many year-dem. An we go eva memba dis day, no?.... Nasso, we Peace Corps life like volunteer-dem don start today! We be people for Amerika, an we be glad an proud for shidon for Cameroon – so we di tank all people-dem wey dem don helep we for reach for dis level today. Wuna ashia!!


Ha for skin? How are you?

Skin dey fine. Ma name na Tess. Weti be ya name? I’m doing well. My name is Tess, what is your name?

A be skul pikin for Peace Corps. We go be volunteer-dem for small time. I’m a student for Peace Corps. Soon we’ll be volunteers.

A be woman for Amerika. A komot for Maine. I’m American. I come from Maine.

Waka fine, we see small time. Have a good day, see you soon.

A be glad for sabe you. Cam good for Cameroon. Nice to meet you. Welcome to Cameroon.

Wha kin chop you chop? What kind of food do you like?

A be chop plenty puff puff-dem. I ate lots of begnets.

For market for Amerika dey no di nack price. At American markets you can’t haggle prices.

A de len for like njama njama. I’ll learn to like vegetables.

A tell you say. Yeah, I’ll say.

Poto poto road. Muddy road.

Chuck pipol-dem inside moto like sadin. Shove people in the car like sardines.

Han bilong for tree. Branch.

Mami wey I get big belly. Pregnant woman.

Chop chair. Successor.

David na big man for training. David is the head of training.

Woman hand side. Left. (I take issue with this one!)

You be correct man. You’re a good guy.

Weti a fit do if tiff man broke ma house? What can I do if a robber breaks in to my house?

Woman pikin-dem di wash pan an klos-dem. The female kids help wash pans and clothes.

Wash nite. Guard.

Rest in Peace, Little One

Two weeks before I was awoken by a Sunday morning phone call that my former homestay sister “Princesse” had died in the night, I had been living with the family and it was her little sister Poupette’s birthday. I had found some beaded bracelets at the corner store and bought each girl three to keep things even – I knew better  than to leave this feisty eleven-year old out. Both girls were tickled, but even though they were elastic banded, the bracelets slipped right off of Princesse’s bony little wrists. That night we spent an hour by a lantern taking them apart and trying to restring and tie them, me spilling beads on the floor several times, and still having enough surplus beads left over to make another. Most of the bracelets were yanked and broken within a few days, but I still love that memory.

I also love thinking about the girl’s night we had the week before - after grandma was particularly harsh to my host sisters at dinner, I decided they needed some time to be little girls. I locked us inside my bedroom, much to the boy’s jealousy, and we played their favorites, Beyonce and Lady Gaga, dressed up in my clothes, sprayed perfume, and looked through my normally forbidden collection of mundane-yet-exotically-foreign bureau items – colored pens, a camera, scented deodorant. I got it in my head to paint their fingernails, then remembered something about such things being forbidden at school and told them I would just go and ask grandma first. When they pleaded me not to I smiled, knowing now for sure it was not allowed, and asked them if they could keep a secret.  In a dash of mischievous sisterhood I painted just one pinky fingernail on each of them purple as their faces beamed with that smitten glee of sneaking into your mom’s bathroom and using her powder. At the breakfast table the next morning they both flashed me their little fingers as they sat eating in their school uniforms, excited to keep up their side of the bargain.

We had done little writing lessons – Princesse’s long-time illness had made her miss a lot of school and I was dismayed to realize that at age 11 she could not read or sound out words to write. So we started with “chat” (cat) which is when I realized that French words do not lend themselves to being sounded out – way too many silent letters.  I’d read their palms for fortunes, telling Princesse she would learn to swim and marry a handsome man, which she told everyone she knew as if my word were gold. Even though she’d been sick with fever and weakness throughout my stay, we had many rambunctious dinners together, and she was getting quick at coming back at her witty older brother’s teasing with zingers of her own.  I told them about our myth of the stork delivering babies and what we say sometimes if a kid’s a little slow;  soon after, her brother got one of my trivia questions wrong (pretty cute – he thought Uruguay and Paraguay were the two non-continental US states) and she didn’t skip a beat: “Yeeah, the stork definitely dropped this one”. God bless her.

The experience of having Princesse die unexpectedly from an unknown illness that almost surely would have been identified and treated in the US has been an intense and valuable eye-opener for me as I start my work here. The low level of awareness around health conditions and preventative measures; the central role of religion and sorcery as the deciders of death; the lack of resources, infrastructure, and doctors; the resulting staggering health care inequities; and the statistics about how many millions of children die in Africa from preventable illnesses – having this little girl die made it all pop to life for me in numbing clarity. It certainly gives me new meaning, motivation and urgency in my role as a community health development worker.

And thank goodness for the circle of life – the very night I learned of Princesse’s death, I attended a traditional birth ceremony for a neighbor’s newborn. All the singing and dancing and general exaggerated joyfulness took on new meaning for me – the gift of life is a particularly fragile one here.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...I'm officially a Peace Corps Volunteer!

My host mother grilling to.die.for fish for my going away dinner. We're not the only country that's got barbequeing down.

Me and grandmere gussied up for dinner

A favorite! The morning of our swearing-in ceremony as my host sisters were heading off to school.



The school bus comes to the end of the driveway each morning at 7:15, just like when I was a kid...and everyone is just thrilled to be heading off.




Julius and I with our Nyansong host parents Bernard and Rose. As a group we picked a pagne (traditional fabric) then all went to tailors and had outfits custom made...feels glamourous, but is the norm!




Ben takes the cake. Phenomenal.




My Pidgin teacher Rosine...she coached me for the speech I gave in Pidgin!



Two days of traveling later - dropped on the side of the road by a bus, what else was there to do but call over some kids with carts?



"Hi, I know this is sort of rediculous...I have all this stuff, and I need to get to Tombel...is there a way we can..." They had my whole life strapped to two motos and were waiting for me to shut up and get on before I could finish the sentence. This prospect phased no one but me.



Waiting on the side of the road for my moto bike driver to bargain with the check point police. Typical truck - "goods only" - yeah, totally.



My new next door neighbors turning fufu...life takes place outside where there is light and space - dishes, laundry, food prep - gives me endless chances to introduce myself



Roads at my new home are usually impassable by car, so finding a moto driver to have on-call was a top priority. Meet Didion, he's taking me to Kumba to get a little stove and gas tank. We had just stopped by a stream so he could wash off his feet and bike...he was up to where his pants are folded in mud, having walked us through several hundred yards of a mud trench in the middle of the road.

Last week in the village before post!



Bravely coming up to the board to underline the contagious diseases




Gym class!



My host sister Poupette was such a good friend and little helper, we had many lovely Sunday mornings together

Teaching about malaria transmission and prevention

Watching chalk dissolve in Coke as part of an oral hygiene demo

Thanksgiving, Africa style

We turned the whole training site grounds into an outdoor kitchen, and even our trainers got into it

The oh so necessary potato team

That is a stove. Talent. Not mine.

Dont let the pretty apron fool you: this lady slaughtered and gutted our turkey. Hats off to Cay.

Shining the silver

It's almost Martha Stewart's kitchen

I almost cried

SO MUCH

Need I even put words on our bliss?

The general mood of the night. Also, meet Julius, my nearest volunteer at post. Rock on!