February 20, 2004

Beginning of January, Christmas break is finished, and I return to Ndélélé to find that everyone in town knows my name. Three to ninety-three year-olds are walking up to me to say “Bonjour, Binder.” Not only is this a novel new addition to my celebrity fame, but it has one advantage - all of my mail arrives, sometimes to my doorstep. Granted, it has now come through the hands of 5 separate people (not including the postmaster), and I find it a little disconcerting to know that random Cameroonians can talk their way into taking my mail from any post office in the country. It's also given rise to an experiment I would like to try, if someone will humor me. Anyone who's willing, I'd like you to take that Special Olympics 80-cent postage stamp and send a note addressed to:

Binder

Ndélélé

Cameroon

We'll see if those three words can work their magic.

The first few weeks of January were somber following the death of one of my students. She was an eighth-grader (but, in fact, 17 years old) who died after giving birth to a baby. This was my first African funeral, a unique experience. The wake and burial are sad occasions, as various groups of people enter the house to pay their last respects. We men were seated outside, watching the digging of the grave in the family's backyard. The priest spoke, and all of her classmates and teachers walked by the grave to throw a handful of dirt in a final goodbye. The vigil started in the evening, a celebration that lasted all night long, complete with drumming, singing, and dancing. I had read (and now have seen) that Cameroonians accept the passing of a loved one with a collective spirit: they cry together and then laugh together. One student told me that in Madagascar, people traditionally cry at a baby's birth (for all the pain he/she will endure in life) and rejoice at a person's death (when he/she is finally liberated).

And the day after the funeral, life goes on. The most popular recent even was the FIFA African Cup of Nations. Cameroon was the defending champion, but lost in the quarterfinals to Nigeria. Just as well, since football is used so often as a political distraction here, and the presidential elections are coming up fast in October. After watching one of the matches at the mayor's house, I was given a generous gift of a live pangolin. This is an interesting animal. It eats ants. I put it in my outdoor kitchen, inadvertently neglected it, and three days later it was on the brink of death. An attempt to give it water proved futile, so we had pangolin for dinner. Don't let the scales deceive you; they come off remarkably well if you soak your pangolin in boiling water first.

February 11th was Youth Day. In Cameroon, though, a holiday is not just a day, it's a whole week filled with fun activities. A cross-country race, football matches, handball matches, a Soirée Culturelle (a talent show of sorts), an art exhibition, a round-table discussion, and a big parade involving every school for 100 kilometers. The Soirée Culturelle was memorable, if only for a reenactment of a currently top-of-the-charts hit Cameroonian music video. At one point in the video, there is an extreme close-up of the male singer's crotch as a dozen dancing girls are fighting for the right to take down his zipper. At this point of the reenactment, the mayor’s wife abruptly brought the talent show to an end.

Next day was back to school, but not really back to school. In anticipation of the lack of students, I packed my newly acquired American football (Christmas present) in my backpack to teach the kids some hail marys and punts. The kids who actually showed up (um… 5 of 384) loved it. And the one who could throw the best spirals was (drum roll) a girl. After an hour and a half of tossing the pigskin, I was leaving and one of the kids ran up to me to ask, “Sir, when do we start practice?” Now to explain downs, penalties, and tackling. (But as I think about it, the whole scenario would make a great feel-good, tear jerking, live-action Disney movie, don't you think?)

Following the acquisition of a bread pan (another gracious Christmas present), my new Peace Corps postmate Katy and I were long overdue for some banana bread. With great foresight, I stuck two bananas in a plastic bag to help them ripen faster. Whoops. As Katy started to mash, out came the maggots. So no banana bread, yet. In other news on the food front, the two of us are still batting a thousand. The following concoctions were all successes: enchiladas (twice… and once despite chili powder in my eyes. “Stir the sauce,” I yelled. “I’m done for!”), guacamole, salsa, tortilla chips, hummus, 7 kinds of bread, Velveeta and macaroni, chocolate cake, chili, meatloaf, pancakes (banana, chocolate chip, plain), fried rice, beef bourguignon, and more mashed potatoes than I've ever eaten before. Never did I think I would rejoice in a brick of “Kraft Velveeta Prepared Cheese Product” as I have in the last month.

Which brings me to my present condition, stricken with what the Peace Corps doctor has diagnosed as a kidney stone. Currently, I'm feeling better and looking forward to getting back into the classroom on Monday. For now, of course, I'll happily gorge myself on as much big-city Gouda as budgetarily possible.

P.S. The subject heading is a commonly seen adornment on Cameroonian motor vehicles. It literally translates as 'Shut up, jealous.'