Hello everybody. Hope all is well back in the land of milk and honey. As you may already know from my past rants March, April and May can be unbearable in the Extreme North. No rain, dust storms, lots and lots of sun, temps reaching 120 fahrenheit, and a sustained wind that feels even warmer. I imagine you could crawl into your oven at home and recreate something similar. I went through it last year without even having a fan, and while I lived to tell the tale, I had no interest of subjecting myself to the worst of it for a second year. Earlier in April two fellow volunteers and I extricated ourselves from the misery and took a few weeks of vacation on our way to the West region of the country to help train some newer volunteers in the Health and Agroforesty programs. This is how we got there:
Day #1- Its Thursday in Bogo so the central market is packed and Djamaaré Express minivans are leaving every ten minutes or so for Maroua. Sadjo, a young kid in my neighborhood who comes over to my house to play cards, soccer, and root through my trash is walking along with me. Neighbors and friends on the street all offer me a bon voyage, also asking me to bring them lots of fruits and vegetables. I do my best to seem unexcited about leaving, but no matter how much I enjoy living in Bogo I cannot deal with it in April. Sadjo leaves me at the bus station and a few friends in the market come over to wait with me for the next car. 1 hour later I arrive Maroua, flag down a moto taxi and make my way to the PC House. Its nearly 6PM but the temp is still brutal. Atleast here I can count on a cold beverage, running water and ceiling fans. Yes, I am very easy to please these days.
Day #2- Use internet, make sure I've got everything organised, and then go submerge myself in a hotel pool all day. On a hot day I can not think of a better way to spend 1500 francs (3-4 bucks) than on entrance fee to a hotel pool.
Day #3- Normally I would take a bus directly to Ngaounderé in the Adamaoua region (central Cameroon), but today I am taking the 3 hour bus to Garoua in the North. I haven't seen my host family the Hamatoukors for a long time and feel I should pay them a visit. Sure, I didn't exactly like living with them for the first three months as a trainee. Sandy potatoes every night for dinner, water that not even my filter could not completely clean, and a few instances of items going “missing.” Nonetheless, for three months they gave me a roof to sleep under and introduced me to the culture in a way no class or instructor ever could.
After pulling into Garoua I stop in the central market and fill a bag with bananas and pineapples for the family. I really enjoy getting gifts for people here and I wish it were this easy in the states. You would all get fresh produce from me for Xmas and birthdays. Arriving at my old home away from home I am shocked to see how in just one year's time the three youngest children, Aila (11), Mahdi (12) and Mohammet (15) have grown in leaps and bounds. When I left in December 2008, Mohammet was squeaky voiced, toothpick thin and a full 6 inches shorter than me. Mohammet is still as skinny as a rail, but he may have an inch or two on me and he no longer screams like a little girl when I mess with him. I told him to start playing basketball at school. The way he's growing he'll be close to 7 feet before I leave in 8 months.
I spend only a few hours with the Hamatoukours and then return to central Garoua. Its Saturday and Manchester United is playing Chelsea. Manchester plays like a drunk intramural team, Chelsea wins, and I've been going back and forth with two Cameroonians supporting Chelsea during the entire match. Despite the heckling between us during the game we part with no hard feelings. But Chelsea still sucks. Back to the bus station to go another 4 hours to Ngaounderé. Yet we don't leave the station until about 4PM, and stopping along the way twice for evening prayer delays our arrival in Ngaounderé until about 10PM.
Day #4- Today is a rest day. Ngaounderé is built upon a plateau and hence the weather is often beautiful. Waking up at 10AM is unheard in my neck of the woods but is surprisingly easy here. If I'm not out of bed in Bogo before 7AM the temperature begins to rise quickly. Rather than taking the train south to Yaoundé tomorrow (the usual southern route), we are traversing the Adamaoua province which has some of the worst roads in the country. Our hope is that in about 3-4 days time the Adamaoua will spit us out somewhere in the West or Northwest regions.
Day #5- Ngaounderé to Tibati. Traveling by road in the Adamaoua always promises to throw some curveballs your way. Whenever I speak to volunteers who live in this region and ask them about the length of their trips to Ngaounderé from their posts I am always shocked. A typical response is “anywhere between 6-12 hours,” or “8 hours if it isn't raining.” Well what if its raining? “You don't go” or “ You stop where you happen to be at that moment” seem to be the most common responses.
Arriving at the Narral Voyages station at 6AM we are waiting for the first bus to Tibati. The chef d'agence is in a surprisingly good mood this morning and offers us the 2 front seats. Unfortunately there are three of us, so one will have to squeeze into the back where they typically squeeze 6 people or more into a row made for about 4. I am the tallest of the group and one of the more unpleasant when it comes to uncomfortable trips so I think that qualifies me for one of the front seats. Volunteer 2 is a man so if we are thinking in Cameroonian terms here he would definitely get the second seat before Volunteer 3, who is a female volunteer and has already displayed incredible courage by choosing to go cross country by bus with Volunteer 2 and I. Volunteer 3 was in the ladies room while the decision was made. Luckily she was a good sport about it. After about 8 hours we pull into the city of Tibati. Its not a huge town, but pretty much every “major road” in the country intersects here, and trucks roll through at all hours of the day. After a ride like that we go around the corner to the New Texas Bar for some much needed refreshments. A few cold ones and a large platter of grilled fish, manioc batons and hot sauce occupy us for the better part of the evening. Finishing up in town, an Austrian doctor in town that we are friends with offers us shelter for the night at a nearby private hospital. Arriving at the hospital grounds around midnight, all three of us are ready to crash in the staff quarters. Unfortunately for our Austrian friend, the head doctor (also Austrian) comes in and requests his help on a surgery that evening.
Day #6- We awake early and get ready to hit the road once more. Today we strike out from Tibati to the town of Banyo, our last stop in the Adamaoua region. It is a 7 hour ride in the best of conditions on a mountainous dirt road. Our doctor friend will not be waking up to see us off this morning as he was in surgery from midnight until 6AM. A Cameroonian who works there as a carpenter offers us a tour of the sprawling hospital before we go. The hospital could almost be considered a completely self sufficient community. In addition to the actual hospital there are homes for employees, a garage staffed by a mechanic, a church, a woodshop and numerous small plots of land under cultivation. Its obvious to me that the hospital is incredibly well run, organised and funded. Yet I've always had a weak stomach when in or around hospitals in this country. I doubt I could ever work in a health field here or any other place for that matter. There's no need for me to be anymore descriptive than to say that the hospital is bursting at the seams with those in need of care, some of the illnesses are gruesome, especially those suffered by small children and infants, and its not unreasonable to think that hospitals such as this that are scattered throughout the country might only be scratching the surface.
Late morning we hop on the vehicle and start towards Banyo. This vehicle has less people than cargo today and its really much more comfortable. In addition to the other passengers we are sharing the vehicle with 2 goats, 5-10 large sacks of millet and about 400 liters of honey. Also aboard are two soldiers brandishing the usual large automatic weapons, no doubt members of the Cameroonian special forces unit. A number of these guys are posted in Bogo and are tasked with preventing bandits and hijackers from robbing people of their livestock out in the bush, especially on our market days. I often see them at the bar, still brandishing automatic weapons, and just generally scaring the shit out of people. But alas, there is literally nothing between Tibati and Banyo and the road is beyond terrible, so I have to say having these two guys along with us today is slightly comforting.
The trip was a long and arduous 7 hours, but it could have been much worse. Banyo is a pretty town tucked away in the hills of the western Adamaoua. I would come here more often but Banyo could possibly be one of the most inaccessible cities in Cameroon. To the east, its atleast 16 hours to the regional capital Ngaounderé. To the west its a 8 hour drive (once again, thats the best case scenario) to Baffoussam, capital of the West region. Arriving in Banyo we leave the station, turn the corner and sit down at a bar. This is becoming a daily trend but after travelling roads like these my nerve endings are frayed due to the erratic driving, cramped quarters and various close calls. We are staying with a volunteer that trained with us in the North. Understandably we have seen her maybe once since our training ended due to her extreme isolation. I think part of me expected to show up in town and find a half crazed volunteer eating insects, writing jibberish on her walls or perhaps something not unlike Anthony Hopkins in Instinct. This obviously proved to be false. I think the isolation of this town, with the beautiful weather and the winding roads through the hills, only adds to its attractiveness.
Day #7- We sleep in as long as possible but today we have the 8 hour ride to Baffoussam. Volunteer 3 is a real team player as she lets Volunteer 2 and I take the front seats again. The trip is uneventful save for two flat tires, but these guys deal with flats everyday and work with the efficiency of a pit crew. It's night by the time we pull into Baffoussam, the third largest city in the country. I think the actual voyage between Banyo and Baffoussam is 8 hours. Not today, however. As we pulled into a town at the midway point we discovered there was no gas; about an hour delay in all. Then during the last hour we hit four police, customs, miltary, etc. checkpoints. One person in the van didn't have their papers in order so the officials at each roadblock went through the same song and dance, demanding money, threatening to arrest the man, and giving the driver plenty of trouble as well. Baffoussam is not exactly a town you want to be wandering around in the dark. Getting out of the van we get the first taxi in sight and head to a hotel for the night. The three of us look like something just chewed us up and spit us out. I can only imagine what the night manager is thinking. Hot shower, grilled fish and manioc, beer, bed.
Day #8- Four hour drive to Bamenda, capital of the Northwest region. Continue another three hours to the village of Kumbo where we will spend the rest of the week enjoying the Ngonsso Cultural Festival.
Cultural Festival- This entire week the Nso people of the Kumbo region were having their cultural festival outside the Fon's (King) Palace in Kumbo. During the day thousands of people descend the hill towards the town square, palace and mosque. The first activity I witness is a long parade of all the various community groups in the area decked out in their finest outfits carrying large placards describing their organization. They approach the palace and most groups stop for a few minutes in the main square to do some dancing. Around the corner from the palace is a primary school that has been turned into a make shift palm wine bar for the festival. Experiencing this cultural festival to the fullest is the only item on our agenda this week so we shortly find ourselves sitting around a couple large bottles of the cloudy beverage that is so popular in this area of the world. There are a few festival goers that appear to have hit the palm wine a little hard already this morning. No such thing as palm wine in the North so I'm a greenhorn here. A few glasses of the stuff, which has a strong taste of yeast and vinegar, and I find myself more nauseous than buzzed. Drinking more palm wine will not be on my agenda of cultural exploration this week. I'll stick with bottles 33 Export and Gold Harp.
During our quick stop at the primary school to drink homemade booze the volunteers who live in the area begin telling us more of what to expect during this festival. It sounds less like a benign rundown of the agenda and more like an ominous warning of impending danger. The main reason for this I discover, are the jujus. In Kumbo jujus are present at festivals such as this in addition to the funerals for members of the Palace. They are highly respected/feared by people here, and the first bit of advice I receive for my upcoming run ins with them is bow down, don't look at them and don't run. Very comforting.
Returning to the square I see a number of jujus who have entered the center of the square. They are all in matching tan fabric with painted designs, and their head and limbs are completely covered in what looks like burlap. These jujus seem to be at the bottom of the pecking order. Most of them, despite being covered head to toe appear to be between the ages of 5-15. I'm beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about when across the square I see a juju break rank, run into the crowd and crack someone over the head with a tree branch. Did I forgot to mention that they are carrying tree branches, sticks and clubs? My head is on a swivel for the rest of the afternoon. Luckily we have a safe house in the middle of town; a bar that serves up what I can only describe as some of the best chicken in the country, served with equally delicious fries and djama-djama (similar to collard greens). From the patio one can see all the happenings going on below. From time to time the owners shut the front gates of the bar, a sure sign of impending danger. Hoardes of festival-goers move about the town not unlike schools of fish, no doubt hoping their power in numbers will spare them a stick over the head.
The evening arrives and we return to the main square. Beaufort, a Cameroonian brand of beer, is sponsoring concerts and games all week. Most games involve dancing and singing. One game I witness on the main stage consists of contestants coming up from the audience and reaching into a crate of Beaufort with one hand, pulling out as many bottles as possible. Simple yet rewarding. Everybody's a winner! To cap the evening the organizers have booked Richard King. I'm told he is originally from the Kumbo area. These days he is a very popular singer in Cameroon and has performed a few times in the USA among other countries. If you read my recent blog, “Women's Day,” I must tell you that Richard King blows Roukaiya Moubalwa out of the water as far as stage presence. He doesn't lip sync and actually looks like he's enjoying himself.
Day #9- Back to the palace for the climax of the cultural celebrations. Today the jujus are out in full force. We are at a small watering hole next to the palace with a sidewalk view of everything. The jujus from yesterday are present in large numbers, but there are more elaborately dressed and masked jujus appearing. After an hour or so most of them are congregated in the courtyard in front of the palace dancing, jumping, running into the crowd on a whim, etc.
Around midday we get word that the “really bad” juju is going to appear very soon. Where he is coming from we have no idea, but I'm assured that you'll know when he shows up as the thousands of people in attendance will basically lose their minds and frantically jostle for a safe perch in or around the main square. There must be somewhere between 5-10 thousand people in just this central neighborhood right now and my more cautious side tells me that this could work out very poorly if people get too spooked. Not only are the jujus periodically brutalizing the crowd, but policeman and palace guards have also taken up sticks and are not afraid to use them for crowd control. At this moment I am seriously conflicted in my emotions. Shocked, curious, scared as hell, confused, amused. They all apply in different ways.
Suddenly about 50 metres to our left up the hill, dozens of people jump from their previously safe viewing spot and haul ass to the other side of the street. Behind where they were, the brush and weeds are shaking furiously yet its not yet possible to see who's doing it. Finally the juju we've been hearing so much about emerges and the place goes nuts. He is covered from head to toe in black burlap, with various leaves strung about his body. Perhaps the only part of him that is visible is a large mane of dreadlocks on top of his head. In one hand he's got a half dozen wooden spears. Anyone within range has crouched down and avoided making eye contact. Running away appears to be out of the question. The area where this is happening is right near by the palace's burial grounds. I've walked by the entrance a few times this week but only members of the palace are permitted inside. Not sure if there is any symbolism behind this. While doubtful, perhaps he was just at the nearby palm wine bar beforehand getting sufficiently lubricated to harass the Kumbo populace to no end.
This juju is highly skilled in the art of scaring people. His looks alone are kind of creepy. He is carrying spears which he has wasted no time in using, hurling them indiscriminately into the crowd. Despite the obvious disadvantage of having his face covered he is surprisingly quick and nimble. When he decides to make a run into the crowd a shockwave of panic sends hundreds leaping over walls, running up hills, diving into nearby buildings. He's been working the other side of the town square for some time now, and hundreds of people have gathered in front of us as the crowd continues to flow according to the juju's movements. Then it happens. I don't actually see it happen, but panicked voices become more numerous and much closer. The juju has come to our side where at this point there are far too many people. I am with about 5 other volunteers and in front of us is the entire crowd. About 10 feet behind us is a wall and assorted buildings. One second I saw the backs of peoples heads as they too were watching the middle of the square. In a split second all those heads turned and I instead was staring at nothing but faces with looks of panic upon them. I think if I were an antelope or wildebeest and a lion came charging into our herd it would feel something like this. My first choice is to turn and run into a wall at which point i imagine I'll be trampled. Choice number two is to side step this stampede, but its far too late for that. Choice number three is to push back, which worked for about two seconds until wave after wave of people kept piling up. At that point it was either go with the flow or fall down under this human mass. While I don't think it would've ended too badly, and the massive push stopped short of the wall, a tiny voice inside my head was saying that I was in an extremely precarious situation. “Dozens trampled at Cameroonian Cultural Festival” doesn't seem all that far fetched for a BBC headline.
As the dreadlocked juju continues his reign of terror a large contingent of jujus emerges from the palace. There are jujus covered in feathers wearing elaborate wooden masks surrounding a few others that are walking high above the mayhem on stilts. All of these jujus are surrounded by the young jujus who just yesterday were taking great joy in hitting everyone on the head. They slowly advance towards dreadlocked juju and he gradually retreats up the hill, still doing his best to mess with everyone in his path. At one point he even scales the front of a three story building in an effort to escape what I can only describe as some sort of staged battle between the good and evil jujus. Some poor unsuspecting man emerges onto the veranda of this building just as the evil juju hops over the railing. Understandably he dives back into the building, locking the door and shutting the windows.
We decide that this is the perfect moment for us to retreat to our safehouse which is the bar at the top of the hill that has metal gates and a good vantage point; a fortress with cold beer, if you will. Approaching the top of the hill my two traveling companions and I discover that evil juju reached the top before us. Turning the corner at the top we are dangerously close to him and waste no time jumping into a narrow alleyway of the main street. Peeking around the corner I see that traffic and commerce are at a standstill as the juju stands by a call box at one of the main intersections. I doubt he is there to buy phone credit so we stay put for a few minutes. He advances past us and starts troubling a bush taxi that is caught up in the gridlock. I snap a few photos while his back is turned and then make a dash for our fortress.
The show is far from over and every hour or so the patrons lock the metal gates and we witness the mayhem from the patio as the juju drama moves around throughout the town. It becomes almost comical towards the end. Seeing it from this vantage point I first hear a few distant screams and yelling. That develops into the sound of a thundering herd of voices, pounding feet and vehicle horns. Shortly after I see from any of the four streets meeting at the intersection below a flood of people, motos and cars going in one direction followed not far behind by a juju or group of jujus. Sure enough a few minutes later an almost identical crowd comes rumbling past from a completely different direction.
The next day I felt like hell. I didn't get brutalized by any jujus but the constant running, dodging and emotional stress definitely took its toll. I think this may be what its like to be some unfortunate creature further down the food chain. My head was still on a swivel, sure that at any moment a juju would jump out and take off after me and use me as a pinata.
Day # Who knows- I had enough of being preyed on by evil spirits. I bid farewell to Kumbo and the Northwest region making my way to the Western city of Foumban, which is another seat of a traditional king, the Fon of the Bamoun people in this case. The next few days were spent helping with a Peace Corps training for other volunteers. I added my two cents by discussing my work with mango orchards and my collaboration with the Cameroonian agricultural research center in Maroua. Later in the week another Extreme North volunteer and I shared our experiences with the Men As Partners program. This was a project we assisted on during February in Maroua which involved working with about two dozen HIV+ men and boys on topics ranging from basic facts on HIV/AIDS to domestic violence, substance abuse, and cutural perspectives on men's behavior.
After the vacation and training I made quick work of getting back to the north so as not to neglect ongoing work in Bogo. I've been back for almost three weeks now and unfortunately the rains have yet to begin in force. A shower here or there that doesn't even wet the ground. Yet the wind comes with it and knocks out the power everytime which means no fan or cold water.
**This blog entry would be much better with pictures, and i have many good ones. Unfortunately I left my camera cord in Bogo and cannot yet upload them yet. So..I hope my next entry will be photos to supplement what you've just read here. With that said I'll end with a few small thoughts on the trip
-The route between Bamenda, the regional capital of the Northwest, on the ring road to the town of Kumbo is one of the more beautiful drives I've ever been on. Sharing this drive with 8 people in a 5 seat hatchback did little to diminish the amazing landscape of lush green valleys and imposing stone peaks.
-If there is one good thing about the hot season in Bogo, aside from the bounty of mangoes, its the constant supply of electricity. This is due to the lack of gale force winds that accompany the thunderstorms in rainy season. Yet in late April I returned to Bogo after a three week absence. This absence was not accidental and served to avoid the worst of the heat. Unbeknownst to me a thunderstorm came to Bogo unseasonably early this year and knocked down numerous power poles on the the road to Maroua. We were without power for seven days. This is never a problem during rainy season as it happens frequently and the temperatures are bearable. But when the 110 plus temperatures return and the power doesn't, I begin to consider community projects with themes such as “Let's all move somewhere else” or “Solar powered refrigerators.” The power company finally got their act together and the power was back. I hugged my fan.
-Three weeks without speaking fulfulde may have been beneficial. Sometimes it seems as though there's not sufficient time to process all the new words and phrases I hear. I butcher fulfulde on a daily basis here but neighbors, friends and colleagues kindly continue to encourage my debasement of their language. Though it's a two way street as often eager children will pass me on the streets in the evening and greet me with an exuberant “Good morning madam!”
-Returning to the Extreme North last month it was impossible not to consider the staggering difference between the North and South of Cameroon. After seeing green things and feeling rain for three weeks down South I found myself at the tailend of my return trip on a bus about 50km away from Maroua. The sun had set and the parched surroundings were no longer visible. To the east of the highway towards Chad a massive thunderstorm was at work on the plain, presumably knocking out Bogo's power in the process. The moisture was far off but just then a tumbleweed rolled across the path of the bus and was followed by a dust storm that induced the bus into a sphincter tightening sway. Visibility went to nearly zero for the next half hour, but the dust began to disperse in time to catch a distant view of Maroua's lights. Cool temperatures, frequent rain and copious amounts of fruits and vegetables are once again a thing of the past but strangely enough the Extreme North feels somewhat like home.
-Back to the topic of jujus, I asked during the festival whether the numerous jujus running around scaring the hell out of people had some other profession for the rest of the year. We did not get into specifics, but yes, these jujus are otherwise normal members of the community. That taxi driver could be one! That kid selling eggs in the market could be one! They could be anywhere! Believe me when I say I'm not trying to draw any major parallels here but it reminded me a bit of Santa Claus in the US. I can only imagine that Santa impersonators are likely to have some sort of gainful employment outside the holiday season. Yet I imagine being Santa Claus isn't nearly as fun as being a juju. Santa Claus just sits in the mall and scares little kids. A juju gets to run around town acting like a complete jerk and scare everyone.
5.11.2010
5.10.2010
Cameroon In The News: May 2010
4.20.2010
Timshel Archibald: Dec 11, 2008 - Apr 14, 2010
My mother never let us have a dog when we were children. I now understand why. They are good companions and guardians, but are pretty much helpless and require great care. I imagine my mother knew most of this care would have fallen on her so she wisely had two cats in the house instead. I didn't know much about cats or any other housepet for that matter, but I became very attached to both of them. Cat, dog, hamster, monkey, river otter, whatever; I imagine I'd become fond of any creature that I took in as a pet as long as they didn't poop on the rug.
I wouldn't say I'm a "dog person" per se, but do like them for the most part. So last year around Christmas I arrived in Bogo, and living on my own for the first time ever I decided a dog would be great to have around. That's when fate brought me to a small mud and straw compound on the outskirts of Bogo.
To say Timshel came from rough beginnings would be an understatement. It is quite possible that the children in this same compound had fleas so what chance did a one week old pup have? I took the only remaining male of the litter (I didn't want anymore puppies on my hands) home with me that morning and he became Timshel. He didn't take to the water and mashed peanuts diet they suggested. That first night I imagine was very difficult for him. Eyes barely open, he would cry bloody murder if I left him alone for any amount of time. After trying to no avail to get him to quiet down, he spent his first night in a shoebox covered with a blanket at the side of my bed. Every hour or so he would let out a whimper but a few pets on the head would put him back into a sound sleep.
After another day of rejecting the mashed peanuts and water concoction (I tried it and cannot blame him), I got on the back of my friend's motorcycle with Timshel wrapped in a bandana. It would be the first of many trips we would take together to Maroua. Arriving at the Peace Corps house in Maroua shortly before Christmas there were many fellow volunteers around, and from that day on I don't think he ever lacked for love. Someone found a top to a baby bottle in the market and when attached to an old coke bottle filled with formula he would gorge himself until his belly was so swollen he could barely stand. It is never cold here, but night temperatures would drop just enough that he needed help staying warm. A Nalgene filled with boiling water and wrapped in a towel could keep him content all night.
He and his appetite grew swiftly. He was always a bit on the small side, but could put away quantities of food twice his size if given the chance. He never took kindly to a leash and the few attempts I made to break him in were futile. Yet he loved to wander from the confines of my home. After pestering the neighbors for a bit he would almost always make his way across the government parade ground to the forest just before the river and bridge leading out of Bogo. Other dogs would come through the forest and neighborhood but he carried himself in a way that suggested it was his turf. If at anytime I was coming back from work or play he would see me from across the parade ground and come sprinting back home, jumping all over me the entire way, no doubt hoping I had brought back his next meal.
Smaller than most dogs he was also the fiercest I've ever seen. It may be slightly demented, but I chuckle when thinking he probably still haunts the dreams of many children in the Garre and Marouare neighborhoods of Bogo. Theft happens from time to time in town, but if the perpetrators ever considered taking their chances on my house they quickly changed their minds when approaching the wall. He looked like a midget dingo but sounded like something that could do serious damage. Unexpected guests were not welcome in his opinion.
Giving him his meals everyday, I had about a half second to remove my hand from the dish before he would rip it to shreds. But let's not focus on the little bastard's hornary side. Often, just before the sun would go down on Bogo I'd be in my chair reading a book on the porch. At whatever point he found me, he must have thought that I had done enough reading, and would gracelessly jump and claw his way into my lap to lay down. Uncomfortable for me, but judging by his wagging tail I don't think there was a more enjoyable part of his day.
I hear people say that a dog's personality mirrors that of his owner. In Timshel's defense I must say it is not true in this case. For such a ratty, half wild mongrel he had more personality than I could ever lay claim to. At turns nasty and just downright mean, around his owner he was the happiest and most affectionate dog around. Perhaps he knew what the life of an average Cameroonian dog was like and didn't want to upset me. Banishment to the alleys of Bogo was threatened on a number of occasions.
Many shoes and garments found their way into his jaws, and the little bugger would steal just about anything not tied down. Two papaya trees and an entire cluster of fresh herbs in my yard met their demise at his hands. Yet regardless of how serious the transgression, its hard to stay mad at a dog that would immediately flop over on his side and grovel at my feet for forgiveness. He got a little too good at it, as often times he would begin apologizing before I knew he had done anything wrong. Despite all the misbehavior, he never once pooped on the rug.
In closing I will say that I am fortunate to have had him, even if only for just over a year's time. I would also say that the Bogo community, while short a few chickens, was also a better place with Timshel on the prowl. He spent many days out and about and it is not unreasonable to believe that soon there will be some Timshel Jr.'s out on the streets. This possibility brings a smile to my face, but most likely a feeling of dread to local citizens.
Sadly I an writing this in another part of the country while on training/vacation. My friend back in village, after doing everything in his and the vet's power, informed me that Timshel lost a quick battle against a stomach and intestinal infection. Medication was given but unfortunately he was too far along at that point. My house guardian found him in the morning, and meaning no disrespect, tossed him in the woods. I felt bad requesting that someone go search out a dead dog, but asked that he be taken and buried properly. My friend and another volunteer so generously took care of it in my absence, burying him in the woods that he used to claim as his territory.
In a few day's time I'll return to Bogo. Not having a rambunctious dog there to greet me will be very strange. Yet once I get settled back into village life I'll make the short walk across the parade ground and into the woods where he used to play, eat his stolen chickens, hassle children, and do god only knows what else, just to make sure he's doing fine.
For a Cameroonian dog Timshel led one hell of a life. I take comfort in that, and I know he is in the next doggy life humping and stealing everthing he can find. So next time you are having a cold one pour a bit out for my homey, the Diamare Dingo, the Terror of Bogo, Timshel!
I wouldn't say I'm a "dog person" per se, but do like them for the most part. So last year around Christmas I arrived in Bogo, and living on my own for the first time ever I decided a dog would be great to have around. That's when fate brought me to a small mud and straw compound on the outskirts of Bogo.
To say Timshel came from rough beginnings would be an understatement. It is quite possible that the children in this same compound had fleas so what chance did a one week old pup have? I took the only remaining male of the litter (I didn't want anymore puppies on my hands) home with me that morning and he became Timshel. He didn't take to the water and mashed peanuts diet they suggested. That first night I imagine was very difficult for him. Eyes barely open, he would cry bloody murder if I left him alone for any amount of time. After trying to no avail to get him to quiet down, he spent his first night in a shoebox covered with a blanket at the side of my bed. Every hour or so he would let out a whimper but a few pets on the head would put him back into a sound sleep.
After another day of rejecting the mashed peanuts and water concoction (I tried it and cannot blame him), I got on the back of my friend's motorcycle with Timshel wrapped in a bandana. It would be the first of many trips we would take together to Maroua. Arriving at the Peace Corps house in Maroua shortly before Christmas there were many fellow volunteers around, and from that day on I don't think he ever lacked for love. Someone found a top to a baby bottle in the market and when attached to an old coke bottle filled with formula he would gorge himself until his belly was so swollen he could barely stand. It is never cold here, but night temperatures would drop just enough that he needed help staying warm. A Nalgene filled with boiling water and wrapped in a towel could keep him content all night.
He and his appetite grew swiftly. He was always a bit on the small side, but could put away quantities of food twice his size if given the chance. He never took kindly to a leash and the few attempts I made to break him in were futile. Yet he loved to wander from the confines of my home. After pestering the neighbors for a bit he would almost always make his way across the government parade ground to the forest just before the river and bridge leading out of Bogo. Other dogs would come through the forest and neighborhood but he carried himself in a way that suggested it was his turf. If at anytime I was coming back from work or play he would see me from across the parade ground and come sprinting back home, jumping all over me the entire way, no doubt hoping I had brought back his next meal.
Smaller than most dogs he was also the fiercest I've ever seen. It may be slightly demented, but I chuckle when thinking he probably still haunts the dreams of many children in the Garre and Marouare neighborhoods of Bogo. Theft happens from time to time in town, but if the perpetrators ever considered taking their chances on my house they quickly changed their minds when approaching the wall. He looked like a midget dingo but sounded like something that could do serious damage. Unexpected guests were not welcome in his opinion.
Giving him his meals everyday, I had about a half second to remove my hand from the dish before he would rip it to shreds. But let's not focus on the little bastard's hornary side. Often, just before the sun would go down on Bogo I'd be in my chair reading a book on the porch. At whatever point he found me, he must have thought that I had done enough reading, and would gracelessly jump and claw his way into my lap to lay down. Uncomfortable for me, but judging by his wagging tail I don't think there was a more enjoyable part of his day.
I hear people say that a dog's personality mirrors that of his owner. In Timshel's defense I must say it is not true in this case. For such a ratty, half wild mongrel he had more personality than I could ever lay claim to. At turns nasty and just downright mean, around his owner he was the happiest and most affectionate dog around. Perhaps he knew what the life of an average Cameroonian dog was like and didn't want to upset me. Banishment to the alleys of Bogo was threatened on a number of occasions.
Many shoes and garments found their way into his jaws, and the little bugger would steal just about anything not tied down. Two papaya trees and an entire cluster of fresh herbs in my yard met their demise at his hands. Yet regardless of how serious the transgression, its hard to stay mad at a dog that would immediately flop over on his side and grovel at my feet for forgiveness. He got a little too good at it, as often times he would begin apologizing before I knew he had done anything wrong. Despite all the misbehavior, he never once pooped on the rug.
In closing I will say that I am fortunate to have had him, even if only for just over a year's time. I would also say that the Bogo community, while short a few chickens, was also a better place with Timshel on the prowl. He spent many days out and about and it is not unreasonable to believe that soon there will be some Timshel Jr.'s out on the streets. This possibility brings a smile to my face, but most likely a feeling of dread to local citizens.
Sadly I an writing this in another part of the country while on training/vacation. My friend back in village, after doing everything in his and the vet's power, informed me that Timshel lost a quick battle against a stomach and intestinal infection. Medication was given but unfortunately he was too far along at that point. My house guardian found him in the morning, and meaning no disrespect, tossed him in the woods. I felt bad requesting that someone go search out a dead dog, but asked that he be taken and buried properly. My friend and another volunteer so generously took care of it in my absence, burying him in the woods that he used to claim as his territory.
In a few day's time I'll return to Bogo. Not having a rambunctious dog there to greet me will be very strange. Yet once I get settled back into village life I'll make the short walk across the parade ground and into the woods where he used to play, eat his stolen chickens, hassle children, and do god only knows what else, just to make sure he's doing fine.
For a Cameroonian dog Timshel led one hell of a life. I take comfort in that, and I know he is in the next doggy life humping and stealing everthing he can find. So next time you are having a cold one pour a bit out for my homey, the Diamare Dingo, the Terror of Bogo, Timshel!
4.12.2010
Currently on the road, but coming soon:
I am finishing up in a cyber cafe in Kumbo village here in the english speaking Northwest Region of Cameroon. Plenty to share with you but my time here is short. Look out for my next post where I will share with you long bus rides through the jungle, hiding from spear throwing jujus, and how not to get trampled in a frantic/running crowd of people. Take care of yourselves and I look forward to getting in contact again soon.
Cameroon In The News: April 2010
Africa has produced exceptional players, but not a World Cup-quality team (LA Times)
Piracy Cuts Oil Production in Cameroon, Threatens Future Investment (Voice of America)
Cameroon to give local players a chance (ESPN)
Cameroon opposition accuse Biya of poll rigging bid (Reuters)
Girl who fled forced prostitution in Cameroon failed by social workers (Telegraph)
Nigeria forces on alert after text message threats (Associated Press)
Cameroon soldiers punished for clash with civilians (Associated Press)
Piracy Cuts Oil Production in Cameroon, Threatens Future Investment (Voice of America)
Cameroon to give local players a chance (ESPN)
Cameroon opposition accuse Biya of poll rigging bid (Reuters)
Girl who fled forced prostitution in Cameroon failed by social workers (Telegraph)
Nigeria forces on alert after text message threats (Associated Press)
Cameroon soldiers punished for clash with civilians (Associated Press)
3.26.2010
Women's Day
There are a number of National Holidays here in Cameroon. Independence Day is an obvious one, but there are also a few others. Paul Biya’s (la president or sa magestie) birthday is an important one, not to mention it being indicative of a personality cult. On that note, the RDPC (Cameroon’s ruling party) also have their own yearly shindig where I imagine they celebrate the fact that they’ve miraculously won every election held in this country since independence. Being a neutral observer of politics here, I stay far away from any festivities associated with those holidays. Getting involved with any sort of political gathering would most likely get me an all expenses paid trip home to the states in no time at all.
In addition to these National “Fetes,” there is also Youth Day in February which is a favorite of mine. Any holiday that allows children of all ages, unsupervised, to run down the streets of Bogo with flaming jars and cans of gasoline attached to sticks is okay in my book(See February 18, 2009 post). In the North, while not official holidays in Cameroon, Fete du Ramadan and Fete du Mouton are heavily anticipated holidays of the Islamic religion. But just recently on March 8th we celebrated another Holiday that brings with it much revelry. On a sunny and hot(surprise) Monday this March, National Women’s Day was held, which I believe coincides with the international Holiday of the same name. This was my second Women’s Day in Cameroon, but unfortunately last year I was on a trip and unable to enjoy the festivities. This year I found myself in Bogo and was therefore privy to the celebration, which began two days prior to the 8th. Two days before Women’s Day, a concert was held in Bogo. Many were extremely excited about this concert, which featured the very popular Roukaiya Mabalwa. You may not have heard of her so allow me to preface the concert. Roukaiya Mabalwa is a very popular female singer from Northern Nigeria, where from what I understand most people speak either Hausa or Fulani; Fulani being very similar to the Fulfulde spoken in Northern Cameroon. When told of this concert I thought that I did not know the music of Roukaiya Mabalwa. However, after a few excited explanations from friends I realized that I was indeed aware of her hit song. Take a stroll past any boutique on any busy street in any Northern Cameroonian village, town or city and you will hear this song. Allow me to state that I do not dislike Roukaiya Mabalwa. All things considered, she’s put out some damn fine tunes. The only problem is that every boutique on every busy street in every village, town or city you will most likely hear that one hit song. I love music of all kinds, but regardless of how much I like a song, listening to snippets of it all day everyday can grate on me.
Nevertheless, I find myself very excited to attend this live music event in my village. The printed tickets say the concert begins at 8PM. As a result, a few other volunteers in town and I planned to show up around 9:30PM. It worked like a charm, as we sat down and about twenty minutes later the concert started.
The venue was a very large compound in the Matakamre neighborhood that belonged to someone I am told is an extremely well to do individual who grew up in Bogo but now finds his fortunes elsewhere, leaving the residence empty almost year round. The courtyard is large enough to seat the estimated 500 in attendance while a hoard of I can only imagine how many thousand awaits outside to see the arriving concert-goers and perhaps catch a glimpse of Roukaiya herself. Arriving on foot with two other nassarras, you can only imagine the scrutiny we are paid. If there was ever a red carpet event in Bogo then this is it.
At this point I’m extremely excited. I’ve heard this woman on the radio before but I want to know how she does a live show. Anybody can sound like a good singer on the radio, but not everyone can get onstage and really rock out. Let’s not forget about stage presence! I need a few crowd surfing incidents, maybe a drum solo or two. Bonus points if they set a guitar on fire. Yelling “we love you Bogo!” at the end of the set is encouraged.
All the movers and shakers of Bogo society seem to be present, and finally the Sous-Prefet rolls into the compound in his SUV with his sizeable entourage. Roukaiya and her three backup singers emerge and the concert begins. To my disbelief they are all lip-syncing. Roukaiya is holding a microphone, but even from the back row I can tell that this is not the Roukaiya I see before me that is singing. Many of her songs reference the names of places and their respective officials. It becomes apparent that they have pre-recorded all these songs and inserted “Bogo,” “Monsieur le Mayeur,” and “Monsieur le Sous-Prefet” where appropriate. From what I have gathered she has been paid a hefty sum of money for this gig so I feel a bit cheated.
I’m done badmouthing this concert for two reasons. Reason number one is that this was not the worst concert I’ve ever attended, believe it or not. In 2007 I went to see the “Allman Brothers Band” at Nissan Pavilion in the DC area. I was well aware that at that point there was only one living Allman brother, but I at least expected him to take us through the golden years with his new band following along. Man, was I wrong. It looked like any guy who ever smoked a joint on the Allman Brothers bus was given an instrument and thrown onstage for that show. To open the gig they ripped into “Hurricane” and I was fully impressed; also very eager to hear a number of their old songs. But listening to twenty geriatric stoners jam out for the next 90 minutes was more than I could handle. I would rather pay to hear someone play ‘Ramblin Man’ on a kazoo than listen to that cacophony again. If you are curious, the Moody Blues concert my parents dragged my sisters and I to when I was about ten years old rounds out the top 3. I’ve grown to appreciate a number of Moody Blues songs, but watching what can only be described as a less limber if not arthritic Justin Hayward prance around onstage in a pirate shirt while teary 40 year olds held up lighters was a childhood experience that really sticks with you.
My apologies, I digress. Reason number two would be what happened at the Roukaiya concert about 10 minutes in. On the 2nd or 3rd song all the ‘grands,’ or big men of Bogo, took to the stage to paste these four lovely ladies with a ridiculous amount of currency. The custom at many of these events is for the rich and/or powerful attendees to come to the stage and start “making it rain.” If you are not sure what I mean by making it rain, I recorded it on my camera and hope to share it with you in the not too distant future. Basically large amounts of cash are tossed at the singers and sometimes placed directly on their forehead. Seeing the amount of dough these guys tossed around was shocking. They could be trouble at a gentleman’s club.
This concert was two days before Women’s Day. Fast forwarding to Monday’s festivities, most of the community gathered at the local government grounds just around the corner of my house for the Women’s Day parade. The Sous-prefet and a number of other bigwigs were gathered under a shaded grandstand of sorts, fashioned out of wooden beams and straw. A few of them rose to address the crowd and bless the festivities. For the next ten minutes or so an assortment of groups marched through holding signs identifying their respective organization or community association. All the women marching are decked out in their newly tailored outfits made out of the official women’s day fabric. Any big event or holiday in Cameroon is accompanied by a corresponding fabric with which everyone has clothes made. Also gracing the ceremony was none other than Roukaiya Mabalwa who chose to stick around Bogo for the holiday. She and her three backup singers gave another rousing lip-syncing concert during the parade. I felt she had worn out her welcome by this point. The community paid a sizeable chunk of cash to have her come and perform, but as far as I'm concerned she can take this low budget karaoke act elsewhere.
So that was pretty much the extent of Women’s Day in Bogo. The parade ended around 10:30 or so, and I imagine most of the participants headed back to the kitchen afterwards to make lunch. Don’t take that the wrong way, ladies. I just call it how I see it.
Later that same day I went into Maroua for the evening to pay some bills and get some internet. I must say that Women’s Day in a large city such as Maroua is a completely different experience altogether. While I imagine the town of Bogo was settling into the evening and drifting off to sleep I arrived in Maroua to discover something resembling spring break. The Peace Corps house is located right in the middle of the main nightlife spot in Maroua along Boulevard Renouveau, and I believe jubilant pandemonium could best describe the scene when I arrived. Every bar, and they are plentiful on this street, was overflowing with people. The Domayo neighborhood where the house is located is known for being one of Maroua’s ‘wilder’ areas, but seeing the street, bars and everything in between filled with so many people that evening was very strange for a normally quiet city. Many of my neighbors/friends/colleagues in Bogo expressed their utter shock at what goes on in Maroua during Women’s Day. Having a drink amongst the crowd that evening I couldn’t say that I saw anything incredibly unsuitable or shocking, but to say people were having a good time would be understating it. Unfortunately I was too tired to enjoy the free for all, and I retired to the house for some sleep. The music and shouting from the street was such that lying in bed I still felt as though I was out in the middle of it all. Luckily I received Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” on audiobook from a fellow volunteer. One of these days I’ll be interested to hear what the man had to say, but on this night Dostoyevsky is being read aloud on my iPod solely for his ability to put me to sleep in less than 2 minutes.
So what is Women’s Day in Cameroon really about? I’ve spent enough time ranting about what I find to be strange or humorous about it. In all seriousness it seems to be an excellent occasion for community groups that day in and day out work to improve the status of women in this country. Every other day of the year could be considered Men’s Day in Cameroon. Especially in the smaller towns and villages, women constantly face a number of challenges and are often severely limited in their choices and ability to be on an equal footing with their male counterparts. Limited access to education, domestic violence, vulnerability to HIV/AIDS to give a few examples. I do not want to give the impression that women are not respected by Cameroonian men or that they are doomed to be second class citizens in all situations. In my experience, women in Bogo are almost always treated with great respect and admiration as mothers, daughters, wives, homemakers, teachers, etc. And beyond what would be considered the traditional domain of females in this society, there are individuals who are always pushing the limits and demanding that women be given more stock in their community beyond what is considered the norm. Women's Day is a good occasion to bring these issues to the surface, but the reality is that it is only one day out of the year. Taking it a step further into everyday life in Cameroon seems to be the challenge now.
If you have the time, move on to the next blog post and freshen up on the latest installment of ‘Cameroon in the News.’ Cameroonian pirates are up to no good, journalists are behaving badly (according to security forces), Les Lions Indomptables gear up for the World Cup, the Central African Republic is not the best neighbor to have, and last but not least African leaders seem intent to prove that in terms of political power 80 is the new 40. Enjoy.
In addition to these National “Fetes,” there is also Youth Day in February which is a favorite of mine. Any holiday that allows children of all ages, unsupervised, to run down the streets of Bogo with flaming jars and cans of gasoline attached to sticks is okay in my book(See February 18, 2009 post). In the North, while not official holidays in Cameroon, Fete du Ramadan and Fete du Mouton are heavily anticipated holidays of the Islamic religion. But just recently on March 8th we celebrated another Holiday that brings with it much revelry. On a sunny and hot(surprise) Monday this March, National Women’s Day was held, which I believe coincides with the international Holiday of the same name. This was my second Women’s Day in Cameroon, but unfortunately last year I was on a trip and unable to enjoy the festivities. This year I found myself in Bogo and was therefore privy to the celebration, which began two days prior to the 8th. Two days before Women’s Day, a concert was held in Bogo. Many were extremely excited about this concert, which featured the very popular Roukaiya Mabalwa. You may not have heard of her so allow me to preface the concert. Roukaiya Mabalwa is a very popular female singer from Northern Nigeria, where from what I understand most people speak either Hausa or Fulani; Fulani being very similar to the Fulfulde spoken in Northern Cameroon. When told of this concert I thought that I did not know the music of Roukaiya Mabalwa. However, after a few excited explanations from friends I realized that I was indeed aware of her hit song. Take a stroll past any boutique on any busy street in any Northern Cameroonian village, town or city and you will hear this song. Allow me to state that I do not dislike Roukaiya Mabalwa. All things considered, she’s put out some damn fine tunes. The only problem is that every boutique on every busy street in every village, town or city you will most likely hear that one hit song. I love music of all kinds, but regardless of how much I like a song, listening to snippets of it all day everyday can grate on me.
Nevertheless, I find myself very excited to attend this live music event in my village. The printed tickets say the concert begins at 8PM. As a result, a few other volunteers in town and I planned to show up around 9:30PM. It worked like a charm, as we sat down and about twenty minutes later the concert started.
The venue was a very large compound in the Matakamre neighborhood that belonged to someone I am told is an extremely well to do individual who grew up in Bogo but now finds his fortunes elsewhere, leaving the residence empty almost year round. The courtyard is large enough to seat the estimated 500 in attendance while a hoard of I can only imagine how many thousand awaits outside to see the arriving concert-goers and perhaps catch a glimpse of Roukaiya herself. Arriving on foot with two other nassarras, you can only imagine the scrutiny we are paid. If there was ever a red carpet event in Bogo then this is it.
At this point I’m extremely excited. I’ve heard this woman on the radio before but I want to know how she does a live show. Anybody can sound like a good singer on the radio, but not everyone can get onstage and really rock out. Let’s not forget about stage presence! I need a few crowd surfing incidents, maybe a drum solo or two. Bonus points if they set a guitar on fire. Yelling “we love you Bogo!” at the end of the set is encouraged.
All the movers and shakers of Bogo society seem to be present, and finally the Sous-Prefet rolls into the compound in his SUV with his sizeable entourage. Roukaiya and her three backup singers emerge and the concert begins. To my disbelief they are all lip-syncing. Roukaiya is holding a microphone, but even from the back row I can tell that this is not the Roukaiya I see before me that is singing. Many of her songs reference the names of places and their respective officials. It becomes apparent that they have pre-recorded all these songs and inserted “Bogo,” “Monsieur le Mayeur,” and “Monsieur le Sous-Prefet” where appropriate. From what I have gathered she has been paid a hefty sum of money for this gig so I feel a bit cheated.
I’m done badmouthing this concert for two reasons. Reason number one is that this was not the worst concert I’ve ever attended, believe it or not. In 2007 I went to see the “Allman Brothers Band” at Nissan Pavilion in the DC area. I was well aware that at that point there was only one living Allman brother, but I at least expected him to take us through the golden years with his new band following along. Man, was I wrong. It looked like any guy who ever smoked a joint on the Allman Brothers bus was given an instrument and thrown onstage for that show. To open the gig they ripped into “Hurricane” and I was fully impressed; also very eager to hear a number of their old songs. But listening to twenty geriatric stoners jam out for the next 90 minutes was more than I could handle. I would rather pay to hear someone play ‘Ramblin Man’ on a kazoo than listen to that cacophony again. If you are curious, the Moody Blues concert my parents dragged my sisters and I to when I was about ten years old rounds out the top 3. I’ve grown to appreciate a number of Moody Blues songs, but watching what can only be described as a less limber if not arthritic Justin Hayward prance around onstage in a pirate shirt while teary 40 year olds held up lighters was a childhood experience that really sticks with you.
My apologies, I digress. Reason number two would be what happened at the Roukaiya concert about 10 minutes in. On the 2nd or 3rd song all the ‘grands,’ or big men of Bogo, took to the stage to paste these four lovely ladies with a ridiculous amount of currency. The custom at many of these events is for the rich and/or powerful attendees to come to the stage and start “making it rain.” If you are not sure what I mean by making it rain, I recorded it on my camera and hope to share it with you in the not too distant future. Basically large amounts of cash are tossed at the singers and sometimes placed directly on their forehead. Seeing the amount of dough these guys tossed around was shocking. They could be trouble at a gentleman’s club.
This concert was two days before Women’s Day. Fast forwarding to Monday’s festivities, most of the community gathered at the local government grounds just around the corner of my house for the Women’s Day parade. The Sous-prefet and a number of other bigwigs were gathered under a shaded grandstand of sorts, fashioned out of wooden beams and straw. A few of them rose to address the crowd and bless the festivities. For the next ten minutes or so an assortment of groups marched through holding signs identifying their respective organization or community association. All the women marching are decked out in their newly tailored outfits made out of the official women’s day fabric. Any big event or holiday in Cameroon is accompanied by a corresponding fabric with which everyone has clothes made. Also gracing the ceremony was none other than Roukaiya Mabalwa who chose to stick around Bogo for the holiday. She and her three backup singers gave another rousing lip-syncing concert during the parade. I felt she had worn out her welcome by this point. The community paid a sizeable chunk of cash to have her come and perform, but as far as I'm concerned she can take this low budget karaoke act elsewhere.
So that was pretty much the extent of Women’s Day in Bogo. The parade ended around 10:30 or so, and I imagine most of the participants headed back to the kitchen afterwards to make lunch. Don’t take that the wrong way, ladies. I just call it how I see it.
Later that same day I went into Maroua for the evening to pay some bills and get some internet. I must say that Women’s Day in a large city such as Maroua is a completely different experience altogether. While I imagine the town of Bogo was settling into the evening and drifting off to sleep I arrived in Maroua to discover something resembling spring break. The Peace Corps house is located right in the middle of the main nightlife spot in Maroua along Boulevard Renouveau, and I believe jubilant pandemonium could best describe the scene when I arrived. Every bar, and they are plentiful on this street, was overflowing with people. The Domayo neighborhood where the house is located is known for being one of Maroua’s ‘wilder’ areas, but seeing the street, bars and everything in between filled with so many people that evening was very strange for a normally quiet city. Many of my neighbors/friends/colleagues in Bogo expressed their utter shock at what goes on in Maroua during Women’s Day. Having a drink amongst the crowd that evening I couldn’t say that I saw anything incredibly unsuitable or shocking, but to say people were having a good time would be understating it. Unfortunately I was too tired to enjoy the free for all, and I retired to the house for some sleep. The music and shouting from the street was such that lying in bed I still felt as though I was out in the middle of it all. Luckily I received Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” on audiobook from a fellow volunteer. One of these days I’ll be interested to hear what the man had to say, but on this night Dostoyevsky is being read aloud on my iPod solely for his ability to put me to sleep in less than 2 minutes.
So what is Women’s Day in Cameroon really about? I’ve spent enough time ranting about what I find to be strange or humorous about it. In all seriousness it seems to be an excellent occasion for community groups that day in and day out work to improve the status of women in this country. Every other day of the year could be considered Men’s Day in Cameroon. Especially in the smaller towns and villages, women constantly face a number of challenges and are often severely limited in their choices and ability to be on an equal footing with their male counterparts. Limited access to education, domestic violence, vulnerability to HIV/AIDS to give a few examples. I do not want to give the impression that women are not respected by Cameroonian men or that they are doomed to be second class citizens in all situations. In my experience, women in Bogo are almost always treated with great respect and admiration as mothers, daughters, wives, homemakers, teachers, etc. And beyond what would be considered the traditional domain of females in this society, there are individuals who are always pushing the limits and demanding that women be given more stock in their community beyond what is considered the norm. Women's Day is a good occasion to bring these issues to the surface, but the reality is that it is only one day out of the year. Taking it a step further into everyday life in Cameroon seems to be the challenge now.
If you have the time, move on to the next blog post and freshen up on the latest installment of ‘Cameroon in the News.’ Cameroonian pirates are up to no good, journalists are behaving badly (according to security forces), Les Lions Indomptables gear up for the World Cup, the Central African Republic is not the best neighbor to have, and last but not least African leaders seem intent to prove that in terms of political power 80 is the new 40. Enjoy.
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