September 13, 2003

Well, the chicken was successfully slaughtered and we feasted with sides of fried potatoes and plantains (as well as cherry Kool-Aid). It was fascinating to participate in the transformation of a live animal into a tasty meal. And while I could try to describe it in detail, the story can scarcely be told without some illustration. Once some pictures are scanned, I’ll share more (and I’ll also give a presentation on the slaughtering of a cow).

Meanwhile, I have moved into my gigantic lime-green/pink house in Ndélélé. Curtains have been hung but for the time being it lies devoid of furniture, which I will have to commission. My time has been occupied mostly by reading philosophy and chasing goats off the porch with my trusty slingshot. Despite my efforts, the veranda is inevitably covered in droppings and urine puddles each morning. Water is stored in buckets and filled about twice a day at the pump. An abundance of children meet me there, insisting that they pump my water and occasionally they even carry my buckets back on their heads. (When they see me coming, they begin shouting “Good morning, sir!” regardless of the time of day. Attempts to correct them have thus far been thwarted.)

At the time of my arrival, Scott (a water/sanitation volunteer) was finishing up two well projects in neighboring villages. I was lucky that he had already made ties with some notable people in town, namely the Divisional Officer, who is the highest ranking government official and the most ruthless Scrabble player I’ve ever encountered. The family who hosted Scott had a television and VCD player, so I also enjoyed such hit films as Assassins and numerous Jean-Claude Van Damme masterpieces, not to mention MTV music videos. Most popular right now is Usher, whom the Cameroonians prefer to call “Oosha.” (Again, attempts to correct them have been thwarted). The family also had a live pangolin, destined for a later meal (pangolin is one of the choice bushmeats here, along with porcupine, monkey, and bush rat – you can understand, then, why I long for the big market day, when the cow is butchered).

Last weekend I returned to Bertoua in order to purchase some hard-to-find items. Oatmeal and powdered drink mix were priorities. And there’s only so much one can concoct with tomatoes, potatoes, onions, and garlic (if anyone has any innovative ideas, please send them!), thus I was awed by the big city market, filled with eggplant, zucchini, carrots, green beans, green peppers, and lettuce. I took a load back to Ndélélé and ate well for 2 days.

On a more serious note, the trip back last Sunday can be categorized as the most frightening experience I’ve had with public transportation, in Cameroon or otherwise. As we were rounding a curve, a motorcycle suddenly appeared not 15 feet in front of our vehicle (traveling approximately 40 miles an hour). We swerved to the left. They swerved in the same direction. We maintained course. They swerved the other way, barreled directly into the side of the bus (under my window), bounced off, and hurtled into the ditch. Immediately, the entire bush taxi erupted into shouts of “He’s dead! He’s dead!” We stopped at the next gendarme post to report to the accident, and thankfully both the moto driver and his passenger were alive. One had sustained a deep cut on his leg, and my neighbor, a nurse, dressed the wound before we moved on. In these instances, I rejoice in the unpaved roads of the East Province, which hinders the drivers from going upwards of 80 miles per hour as they do elsewhere in the country.

As for work, I had been looking forward to returning home since the school year officially started in Cameroon last Monday. We had a faculty meeting on Tuesday, with two teachers (including me), the principal, and the bursar in attendance. Essentially, we had one-fourth of the staff. The rest haven’t arrived. It was decided that classes would officially start the following day, according to last year’s schedule (since the vice-principal wasn’t there, and he is the one – the only one, I was emphatically told – who writes up the schedules). We wrote times and dates on a chalkboard outside, and the following morning I trudged through the mud and rain in my freshly polished shoes (“Why are you bothering?” the principal asked me when I ran into him. “No one ever shows up in the rain…”).

I had one student in class. The next period I had two students. The third period had no students. This is, we are told, typical of the Cameroonian education system. Of course, the reaction to it is always the same – incredulous speculation. (“Where on earth could the students be?”) Somehow this cycle persists: the teachers assume no students will be present, and the students assume no teachers will be present. It is frustrating and aggravating. But then, I told myself, if everything functioned perfectly in Cameroon, Ndélélé wouldn’t need me. So I took advantage of the free hour to go to the market and stock up on tomatoes, onions, and garlic.