Youth Day 2011!

What better time than Valentine’s Day to gush about something I truly love: being around kids. Last Friday marked the 50^th anniversary of the formerly two separate Cameroons, one colonized by the French and one by the British, becoming one nation, and to my great delight they mark the occasion with Youth Day, the most adorable celebration of children I’ve ever seen.  

All week school  kids were getting ready – practicing marching and singing, making sure uniforms were spotless and frilly socks were bleached white, and getting new do’s.

One of my main projects so far has been to help build a Health Club at the local middle/high school. We decided we would march in the Youth Day parade carrying signs with health messages for the community, especially around prevention of HIV, cholera and malaria. Here we are working out wording and spelling, on the ripped up boxes that my packages from the US have come in! 

Later on we gathered at my house to make bigger signs – I was so impressed with their motivation and hard work, and also excited to add a little art to their curriculum. My marker collection was a big hit – thanks again to your packages.

This sign urging people to get tested for HIV was painted on a piece of plywood left over from when I got my leaky ceiling repaired. The carpenter wanted to take it, but I reminded him I’d paid for it, so I held on to it. So glad – after weeks of the kids in my compound using it as a lean-to fort on my porch, it got put to even better use.

The ceremony started in a perfectly typical fashion with the hoisting of the flag and the singing of the National Anthem.

Every area school got to showcase their marching to local government officials. These guys were a real show-stopper…

…While these gentlemen were a tad less coordinated, but still won first prize in my book for their killer pink shirts and bow ties!

I was literally crying I was smiling so hard as all the little nursery schools marched past – was this holiday not made as an indulgence for my weak spot for cuteness?



Singing about youth and unification followed. Prizes were plastic buckets for the schools – great idea as plastic is expensive here but buckets are in constant demand for carrying water



Definitely impressed with their focus, and loving the uniform fashion show





Then came traditional dancing and skits – I really don’t know if it’s genes or practice, but these kids can move. In a ritual we use very differently, it’s customary for the audience to throw money at the dancers if they are doing well, or even run up and stuff it in their clothes – the money goes to the school!

My health club members were very proud of their own showcase in the day. The wording for the “If you must do it, use a condom!” sign came after a good amount of delicate discussion about where the schools falls on the abstinence vs. comprehensive sex-education question…

The day ended with a soccer match in the pouring rain – awesome!

Water, water, nowhere

Life clearly wants to keep me on my toes. Right after I told you the difference it makes to my day when my outside tap flows at night, all flowing came to a screeching halt. Everything sure is relative – when I’m getting a bucket full of water, I fantasize about running water to do dishes with; when it’s only half a bucket, all I want is a whole one; when my tap dries up I would do anything for that half bucket; and when the tap down the street dries up too, suddenly that tedious trip seems like nothing.

I now plan my day around the recess schedule of the school across from me - it’s the most important part of my day, when kids will come over to help me carry water, and I will leave meetings early to be there. It’s also the absolute cutest thing in the world – about 20 little girls come to my door and yell “Auntie Tasse! Auntie Tasse!”, scramble to carry more containers than the next girl, and then  scurry off with their school uniform dresses tucked up into their underwear so they can run fast and keep cool. Just the joy they give me does a lot to keep my mind off how dusty, sweaty and itchy from bug bites I am.

But with local taps now dry, their 30 minute break isn’t enough to get to water and come back, so with another two months of the dry season ahead, I’m going to have to start paying moto drivers to carry jugs for me from afar. The frustrating part is, as you walk around town, it looks like there are little natural springs everywhere - that is where the old pipes that should be getting water to houses are leaking and gushing water into the ground instead.

Alas, I’m torn about urging people to wash their hands each time they eat or go to the bathroom– a great idea, in theory!  I can’t imagine having to use up precious clean water that many times a day, and if I didn’t have hand sanitizer, which none of them can get here, I don’t know what I’d be doing myself. And the modern toilets that are preferable to pit latrines for sanitation reasons have one glaring weakness – they need a whole bucket of water to flush them, so even recommending those is not without complication. But with a deadly cholera outbreak making its way across the country, improved hygiene practices are worth stressing all the same.

Despite the fact that I need to choose whether it is my hair or my dishes that will be washed in the next 36 hours, I’m glad I’m seeing first-hand what it’s like to be constricted by this problem, and I’m satisfied my neighbors see that I too am walking the streets in the morning, pail in hand, looking for a flowing tap. I hope I can gain credibility that helps people respect me when I try to work with them on how to make staying healthy feasible.

Given this context, I never cease to be amazed by what people are coping with stoically and patiently. Even without running water or anything close, my next-door neighbor, who had a baby the weekend I moved in, is on her stoop every morning, often with baby strapped to her back, hand-washing the cloth diapers the baby will need again that day. And I thought caring for a baby in the US was fussy - oh, the ease of our throwaway Pampers! I’ll raise the last glass worth of water in my filter to her.

Welcome to my morning

So you’ve figured out I’m not living in a mud hut, but otherwise, what the heck is my day-to- day life like here? Here’s a peak – and if you wonder why I’m not getting any further than describing my living situation, it’s frankly because that’s about all I’ve got my head wrapped around so far. Being the only white person and the first Peace Corps volunteer in this area, not to mention daily culture clash and the lack of anything familiar, has me wrapped in a disorienting tangle of challenges that I’m still too turned around to relate, but down the road we’ll unravel it funny and painful bit by bit : )

My first thought when I wake up with a jolt is usually “How the hell did that rooster get into my bedroom??!”  Once I sit up I remember that my windows are barred and my doors are locked, so the abrasive, intrusive noise-maker is only right outside on my porch. Ok, breathe, deal. I’m up.

Next:  fingers crossed that water “flowed” last night. My house is set up for running water, but the community’s catchment system is plagued with leaks and is insufficient for the neighborhood’s population, especially in the current dry season, so the showerhead and sink are purely decorative. As for most Cameroonians then, my home life revolves around the logistics of water – getting it, and using it sparingly. There is a tap on the outside of my house that often runs for a couple hours in the middle of the night (or else the lizards are turning into little water-porting gnomes) and when I wake up to a full bucket, my day is off to a great start. I immediately put a big pot on my gas plate, get some oatmeal cooking alongside it, and cut up a small pineapple – at 25 cents apiece I’ll eat the whole thing right there. I split the hot water and use a couple bowls to do the dishes with one half, then add the other half to a bucket of water outside and take my sponge bath under the banana trees  – warm water turns it from an unpleasant drudgery into the most luxurious moment of my day. Well, my every few days – in between, the water is put toward my drinking filter, washing clothes, cooking, flushing the toilet, and giving the new house a serious scrub down, which takes place in small bits as I can get my hands on extra reserves of liquid and motivation. If by 9 AM I have made breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, bathed,  and made small talk with my neighbor ladies who are busy cooking and washing as well, I feel productive…and ready for a nap.

When no water has come in the night it’s like getting up on the wrong side of the bed.  I get easily overwhelmed by the highways of ants that the heat has driven into my kitchen and the family of chirping mice that are living in the base of my living room comforter chair. My scores of bug bites itch more and my face and feet feel dustier knowing I won’t be bathing, and being set back another day to wash my dirty floors and clothes makes me feel irkingly out of control. Most of all, intimidation consumes me at the overwhelming project of transforming my fixer-upper house into a much needed oasis without Google, Home Depot, or the yellow pages.  The place has not been lived in for years – aside from looking like a haunted house with cobwebs and spiders, the electricity and plumbing need major attention, gaps under the outside doors let mice in, the locks need to be changed, the roof leaks...and the bathroom sink literally fell off the wall when I put my toothpaste down on it. Did I mention that my elderly landlord died three days after I moved in? So where do I start?  It’s all about who knows some guy who is good with wires or built his own house and could help me out, and that includes a major learning curve around doing informal business. For example, the next time I give a guy money to go and buy the needed materials for a job, I’ll think to hold on to his right arm first so he actually comes back. Guess you gotta pay the price for becoming savvy. 

But when all this seems like a 10,000 piece puzzle and all I’ve connected so far is three edge pieces, I smile with relief, remembering I have a secret weapon. Perseverance, optimism, and unshakable faith that I can handle this? Well, I’m working on those, but what I know I can count on now is the shiny bicycle the Peace Corps gave me – though the roads are so rough, dusty and ridden with speeding motorcycles that riding it is not feasible, the kids in my courtyard will do anything to sit on it and have me push them around. Including – aha- helping me fetch buckets of water from the nearest public tap. These kids grow up with physical labor the way I grew up with bedtime stories- it’s just tradition. Nine year old girls are putting jugs on their heads that I can’t even pick up once they leave them on my porch, and who knew six year old boys could already have defined arm muscles?!  Once they’ve helped me and I keep up my end of the bargain (I guess  I should not be surprised that they think 3 people can sit on the bicycle seat at once) I go inside and revel at being able to brush my teeth, wash my face, and put  on some water for tea. That’s better, I can handle this. And the pieces are coming together – I’ve now got new locks, I’ve figured out where to buy eggs and peanuts for protein, and I hired the car-wash guys to wash my rug with their serious hose. I’ve set up shelves in my kitchen, gotten mosquito screens put on all my windows, and learned how to use the same water for at least three tasks.

In English we say slow and steady; in French they say petite a petite; in Pidgin, don’t ask me why, they say small small catch monkey.  And so it is – I’ve realized this whole experience is just as much about figuring out how to be on my own, outside my comfort level, as it is about connecting with others.

It’s a lot like camping actually, and to be honest, I sort of love it. Because with every little thing that comes together that was 25 times harder to get accomplished than it would have been at home, the satisfaction is equally out of proportion. It's the little victories.

It's harder to be homesick when it doesn't look like Christmas

Our campsite at Limbe beach in Southwest Cameroon where I went for a few days of Christmas rest and relaxation. Our tent was next to that Jeep until torrential rains flooded it in the middle of the night. It must have been 30 years old and far from waterproof. Goodbyye phone.

I was in the water each morning before I had even rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. And it was warmer than my daily bucket bath...in fact the sheer amount of water was astounding to my senses after conserving on one bucket a day.

Awesome bird watching here

Anywhere and everywhere!

Interesting to see the priviledged side of Cameroonian society that was spending Christmas at the beach

For many the beach was still all about working...pulling in fishing nets

My reception by my partner nonprofit organization!

Boys will be boys! Toy guns made out of sugarcane stalks stabbed through with a stick.

Lizards are better than mice!

My front porch was turned into a dancefloor when my neighbor saw my doormat hanging over my railing waiting to get washed and decided it would make a stunning and luxurious ball gown.

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.