So here I am. Again. It's the end of the first week of 'work' and the size of the job in hand is, well, a little bit intimidating.
A wise man, unbearded, once said, "anyone can eat an elephant, it's just a matter of how you go about it," and what we've got here is a positively planetary pachyderm. All I've got is a plastic handled fork, whose tines are made of the weakest metal known to man and whose handle has already fallen off. Some would say I had a challenge on my hands, others would stick their head in a bucket of lard. There are others still who would compose a sea shanty and mallemaroke their way around northern latitudes.
The first group would be those closest to the mark, though the jury is still in session, and if I see any Right Whales I'll be sure to let you know.
This week has been a week of firsts. I could list them but it would be a little on the boring side; suffice to say, there were many of them and they ranged in excitement from the first warts'n'all use of the latrine to the first pursuit of monster centipedes from the premises. The latter did not enduce the former but had the former not preceeded the latter then the latter's desire to scale my leg may well have had such an effect. If you catch my drift.
The vultures have been conspicous in their absence, in the same way that a praying mantis who guards my door by night has not been. And the flies must have been in cahoots with the daddy longlegs.
What indeed is the plural of daddy longlegs? Is it daddys longlegs, making sure not to throw in a rogue apostophe; that's to say is it of the same plural class as mothers-in-law. Nothing derogatory meant there, just happens to be the only one I can think of at the moment.
The house is decorated as best I can with the tools available to me and I've been blown away by the sheer amount of dust. People in glass houses should, quite obviously, be discouraged from lobbing lumps of rock around. People in concrete floored houses shouldn't even consider walking about them unless they make Legolas look positively leaden footed. At the current rate of erosion, I reckon I'll be through the earth's mantle by about Tuesday next.
Why the elephant? Well having spent the last week observing my colleagues, their charges and generally being absorbed my scholastic life here, there are so many things to note and areas that can be changed, that it's impossible to know where to start. The fact that there are not jobs for those children who do go through the whole education system is, possibly, one of the fundamental problems, but the others seem all that more important, and that little bit easier to address.
My job is not one of culture change. By that I mean culture with a capital C. There's changing culture and there's changing Culture. One is what makes us British instead of for example French. The other is what makes us, we, the global north understand that gender, colour, religion, race or creed are wrappers (of 'brownpaperpackagingtiedupwithstring' as opposed to 'gangsta' variety) and nothing more.
The border is both broad and blurred and comes bound up in a sea of varying shades of grey. You say /tə'meɪteʊ/ I say /tə'mɑ:teʊ/ etc etc.
I am somewhere in that big sea of bluriness. There are things which I want to change but know that to try and do so would take someone a lot greater than me. In fact it would take an entire nation and would probably take the form of a bloody and violent coup.
Before I got here I had been told, and was generally of the impression that, the children here enjoyed school, wanted to be there and, therefore, were hungry to learn; were hungry for an education; an education to help them progress through life, to get them out of the interminable daily grind of wondering whether this meal would be their last. Yes they want to be at school but they're not there for the learning. They're there because if they weren't they'd be watching over a flock of sheep. They're there because their friends are too and they can avoid taking on any responsibility until they find someone/two/three/four to marry and have children with.
The school itself is a secondary school, which according to the law of the land, is for children aged between 11 and 14. Some of them are nearer 20, and at least one of them is married and expecting her third child. How do I know this? She's my neighbour and she very kindly - in a moment of grave concern at my lack of wife and offspring - offered to give me one of her children, should this next crop be twins.
For the girls they go to school because the laws regarding the rights of the child and the millennium development goals state that, and I paraphrase, by 2015 all children will be able to complete a full course of primary schooling. They're not there because they want to be, or have huge career aspirations, they're there because a well meaning bureaucrat said they should be. They're there to tick the box marked "Girls receiving primary education". For many, as soon as the senior male in the family decides it's time that they were married, that's what they'll be. Baby making machines, consigned to a lot against which they have no voice. A vicious circle that ensures that they never benefit from 'development'.
The question: Is this culture with a small c or a big one? Is it both? Where, as I said, do I start?
I could go on and on and on and on, but I won't, partly because there's so much to say that this already monologous (is that a word?) diatribe is already getting out of control, but also it makes the beast seem that much more indigestible.
Just to say that there are a huge number of challenges in front of me. Some of them I hope I can help CES de Godola and the town itself overcome. Others are going to take generations. The first morsels of elephant will soon, I hope, start to slip down. A nice chianti wouldn't go amiss, but a cold beer is what beckons and so it is to that that I shall go.
Elephant season doesn't start til September ... that's when the gloves come off and the 'real work' starts. It's a task of Sisyphan proportions and I'm well aware of my own limitations. I know too that the smallest things are going to make a barely discernible difference ... but they might just start something.
But at the same time, and I quote ...
"J: All right, I'm in, 'cos there's some next level shit going on and I'm OK with that. But before y'all go beaming me up there's one thing you gotta remember: You chose me ... so you recognised the skills. So I don't want nobody calling me son or kid or sport or nothing like that. Cool?
K: Cool. Whatever you say, slick. But I need to tell you something about all your skills: As of right now, they mean precisely ... dick."*
I know how he feels.
* The quotes are both from Men in Black ... Quite possibly the best film ever. I know many of you will disagree, but ya-boo sucks to you.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Back again so soon?
Yes, indeed I am ... after one solitary night in Godola I discovered there were a whole list of things on my list of things not to forget that I had as it happens forgotten. Not just that but there were also no end of things that I hadn't even thought of that I suddenly find I need, and things too which I bought but just need more of ... it's terribly confusing, not very exciting but thought you should know none the less.
Also there was a phonecall that needed to be made: I have reception in my house, but only it seems for 3 seconds at a time and assuming the wind is blowing in the right direction. Text messages get to me but phonecalls get lost in the heat. Who can blame them! +237 9161764 should you be interested. Can't promise responses to texts but I'll try and include you in my emailing duties as and when I can fulfil them.
So, yes, the first night. And what a night it was. Actually it was the whole day really but the night was infinitely more peculiar.
Had what could be described as 'one of those days' yesterday when everything seemed to go wrong. Not badly wrong just wrong enough for you to realise after the 7th little bit wrong thing that it was going to be one of those days, sighing resignedly and letting it take its course.
The journey there in the front of a truck whose miopic driver seemed to manage to avoid missing any of the 38million pot-holes on the road twixt here, Maroua, and there, Godola. Officious army/police types waved us over in the hope of a little baksheesh but whatever was said appeased his uniformed ego and he let us go ... perhaps it was a warning that Saturday 17th March was going to be 'one of those days'.
Got to the house, unloaded the kit and was left with a small shabbily dressed man who was assigned sweeper and general cleanser of future abode. He did as his job suggested, helped arrange the furniture and so I was left.
A breif description me thinks wouldn't go amiss, but then again ... two rooms, one big the other not so. White walls in and out with a metal roof. External latrine is used by me and the family in the other building on the compound and is going to take some getting used to, to say the least. Kitchen consists of a gas bottle with a hob attached to the top, a fridge and a large metal water filter that is going to be working incredibly hard for the next couple of years! And that is about that. A few chairs, a table, a bed, a couple of cupboards ... actually it's almost luxurious in many ways.
Met the neighbour, or rather Mrs Neighbour and her progeny ... two small and smiley things of the female persuasion who parrot everything I say and spend most of their time staring wide-eyed at my obscure, almost ghostly drifting around what is effectively their garden! Mrs Neighbour said she'd show me how to whistle up some Cameroonian fare and also to tell me what's what. When Mr N got home, we did our intros and then they very kindly fed me. Not sure if they knew that my fridge was empty but the gesture was accepted whole-heartedly.
And then the boss rocked up.
There I was thinking "I'll get used to this" and he appeared, gave me the standard security chat which achieved little but to scare me shitless. All those friendly people I'd seen in town that afternoon became ax wielding maniacs with designs on my life and various parts of my anatomy. They were all gun-toting weirdos with no consideration for the sanctity of human life and were all lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to turn out the light and then they'd strike.
No sooner had I turned out the light than they struck.
Imaginary foes are the worst of all and as I leapt out of bed, armed to the teeth with my leatherman, unlocked the door and hurled myself at the imaginary foe in the living room I felt a little ridiculous. Strange house, strange noises, strange town surrounded by strangers ... I think it's alright to be a little on edge! Imaginary foe slain, normality resumed until 5 o'clock when it sounded like someone was trying to get in through the roof.
Leapt out of bed, armed to the teeth again, looked out the window to see a dazed looking vulture who'd clearly done a less than graceful landing on hot corrugated iron and then slid off. Not sure whether it's a good thing to have vultures providing your morning call but I guess it's better to see them than not!
And so there we go ... back in town, this time on the back of a moto-taxi and with a helmet full of millet seed. Got hit by a man going the wrong way with a bag of millet ... him that is, not me. Bag split and he filled my crash helmet with seeds ...
More wiffle, more waffle and a whole load of piffle to go with it. This'll be my last for a while I imagine. Think you've got enough to be getting on with though!
Must dash, the vultures are waiting.
Also there was a phonecall that needed to be made: I have reception in my house, but only it seems for 3 seconds at a time and assuming the wind is blowing in the right direction. Text messages get to me but phonecalls get lost in the heat. Who can blame them! +237 9161764 should you be interested. Can't promise responses to texts but I'll try and include you in my emailing duties as and when I can fulfil them.
So, yes, the first night. And what a night it was. Actually it was the whole day really but the night was infinitely more peculiar.
Had what could be described as 'one of those days' yesterday when everything seemed to go wrong. Not badly wrong just wrong enough for you to realise after the 7th little bit wrong thing that it was going to be one of those days, sighing resignedly and letting it take its course.
The journey there in the front of a truck whose miopic driver seemed to manage to avoid missing any of the 38million pot-holes on the road twixt here, Maroua, and there, Godola. Officious army/police types waved us over in the hope of a little baksheesh but whatever was said appeased his uniformed ego and he let us go ... perhaps it was a warning that Saturday 17th March was going to be 'one of those days'.
Got to the house, unloaded the kit and was left with a small shabbily dressed man who was assigned sweeper and general cleanser of future abode. He did as his job suggested, helped arrange the furniture and so I was left.
A breif description me thinks wouldn't go amiss, but then again ... two rooms, one big the other not so. White walls in and out with a metal roof. External latrine is used by me and the family in the other building on the compound and is going to take some getting used to, to say the least. Kitchen consists of a gas bottle with a hob attached to the top, a fridge and a large metal water filter that is going to be working incredibly hard for the next couple of years! And that is about that. A few chairs, a table, a bed, a couple of cupboards ... actually it's almost luxurious in many ways.
Met the neighbour, or rather Mrs Neighbour and her progeny ... two small and smiley things of the female persuasion who parrot everything I say and spend most of their time staring wide-eyed at my obscure, almost ghostly drifting around what is effectively their garden! Mrs Neighbour said she'd show me how to whistle up some Cameroonian fare and also to tell me what's what. When Mr N got home, we did our intros and then they very kindly fed me. Not sure if they knew that my fridge was empty but the gesture was accepted whole-heartedly.
And then the boss rocked up.
There I was thinking "I'll get used to this" and he appeared, gave me the standard security chat which achieved little but to scare me shitless. All those friendly people I'd seen in town that afternoon became ax wielding maniacs with designs on my life and various parts of my anatomy. They were all gun-toting weirdos with no consideration for the sanctity of human life and were all lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to turn out the light and then they'd strike.
No sooner had I turned out the light than they struck.
Imaginary foes are the worst of all and as I leapt out of bed, armed to the teeth with my leatherman, unlocked the door and hurled myself at the imaginary foe in the living room I felt a little ridiculous. Strange house, strange noises, strange town surrounded by strangers ... I think it's alright to be a little on edge! Imaginary foe slain, normality resumed until 5 o'clock when it sounded like someone was trying to get in through the roof.
Leapt out of bed, armed to the teeth again, looked out the window to see a dazed looking vulture who'd clearly done a less than graceful landing on hot corrugated iron and then slid off. Not sure whether it's a good thing to have vultures providing your morning call but I guess it's better to see them than not!
And so there we go ... back in town, this time on the back of a moto-taxi and with a helmet full of millet seed. Got hit by a man going the wrong way with a bag of millet ... him that is, not me. Bag split and he filled my crash helmet with seeds ...
More wiffle, more waffle and a whole load of piffle to go with it. This'll be my last for a while I imagine. Think you've got enough to be getting on with though!
Must dash, the vultures are waiting.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
On second thoughts, perhaps not: it is a silly place.
Virgin Hair Fertiliser ... need I say more. If anyone has any ideas as to what this does or is do let me know. Answers on a postcard.
Here I sit for the ultimate publication prior to scootling from this hotbed of baptist fervour destination Godola and the building I am to call 'home' for the foreseeable future. It's got walls and a roof and an external toilet as the brochure said it would and so I have little about which to grumble.
As I cast my eyes around the room for inspiration as to what to write I feel that the meagre visual fare on offer, were you able to see it, would not fill you with the anticipation I aspire to provoke in you, my reading public. To my left is a picture of what looks like a man of good intention being distracted by Mr Magic Hands himself from intervening in a street brawl involving nothing but men on crutches. There's loo roll scattered over the baked earth floor and someone seems to have lost his shoes ... answers on a postcard again? Perhaps a letter would be better.
So, yes, I leave tomorrow. This week has been as weird and disjointed in many ways as last week. Having got here on Friday late and having seen the placement and met the boss, the rest of the time was ours to kill. All very well and good except neither of us, me or my travelling companionette, had any idea where we were or what there was to do. After the security briefing in Yaounde that basically told us never to leave the hotel after dark as the kindly street folk we saw by day turned into vampirous murders as soon as the sun set, we were understandably loathe to leave the comfort of our respective dorm rooms. I may err towards the 'XL' section of pret a porter clothing emporia but I don't need five beds all to myself. Perhaps they were allowing for my permitted 4 wives.
Were it not for a current volunteer rocking up early evening with an invite to dine with a handful of other volunteers we would have been at, what many would describe as, "a loose end". Dine we did and it was good to meet some of the others who will be constituting the social scene for various amounts of time twixt now and '09. Joined various of their number for a dip on Sunday - of the chlorinated as opposed to Cream cheese and chives variety - which involved taking my first Moto-Taxi, the preferred mode of transport round these parts: a small and not fast motorcycle.
Nobody wears helmets except for me it seems, and in my excitement at having mastered the transport system so adeptly I sat just close enough to the driver to ensure that every time he touched the brakes I nutted him. Whether or not he noticed history didn't relate. He looked a little dazed when I got off but then again he looked a little dazed when I got on. Apparently it's not totally unknown for them to be stoned out of their skulls on one of any number of mind-altering substances.
Monday through today has largely been spent 'discovering' the heart and soul of this, the capital of extremely northern Cameroon either physically, geographically, gastronomically or, indeed, morally. The last of these has been by word of mouth and region specific briefing; the rest on foot, or Moto-taxi where necessary.
Some of the tales have been jaw-dropping it has to be said. Most memorable has to have been our gender briefing. For those of you who are as confused as I was when I saw this on the timetable, we're not being told what gender we are but how what gender one is, in this melting pot of cultures and beliefs, can have a seriously detrimental effect on your life.
In a country where "Is this is a polygamous marriage? Y/N" is one of the questions on the marriage certificate, it doesn't take a huge leap of the imagination to realise that, for the most part, that second X chromosome is a burden that would break the strongest of backs. There are of course exceptions, people who escaped the vicious cycle of childhood marriages to men 40 years their senior, or 'selling' themselves to their teachers to get better grades, but in this vast and multifaceted country and in this its most nomadic region, they are few and far between.
Part of my remit is to start an after school club for girls to encourage them to continue to the end of secondary education, here in a country when most of them consider themselves on the shelf if they're not married by 16. I've got to try and encourage their continued education in a country as a whole with very few female role models, not only that but also to get them to try and persuade their younger female siblings to do the same. The sad thing is, the generation I'm teaching will not be the ones who reap the rewards if indeed there are any. Their children may benefit, but in a country where surviving today is the challenge and tomorrow can wait it would be fair to say we've all got our work cut out.
Where do you start? I've no idea ... you can add the answer to that as a P.S. Incidentally, the best address for those who feel the urge/need ...
c/o VSO
B.P. 1004 Maroua
Extreme Nord
Cameroon
Djam Waala, as they say.
Here I sit for the ultimate publication prior to scootling from this hotbed of baptist fervour destination Godola and the building I am to call 'home' for the foreseeable future. It's got walls and a roof and an external toilet as the brochure said it would and so I have little about which to grumble.
As I cast my eyes around the room for inspiration as to what to write I feel that the meagre visual fare on offer, were you able to see it, would not fill you with the anticipation I aspire to provoke in you, my reading public. To my left is a picture of what looks like a man of good intention being distracted by Mr Magic Hands himself from intervening in a street brawl involving nothing but men on crutches. There's loo roll scattered over the baked earth floor and someone seems to have lost his shoes ... answers on a postcard again? Perhaps a letter would be better.
So, yes, I leave tomorrow. This week has been as weird and disjointed in many ways as last week. Having got here on Friday late and having seen the placement and met the boss, the rest of the time was ours to kill. All very well and good except neither of us, me or my travelling companionette, had any idea where we were or what there was to do. After the security briefing in Yaounde that basically told us never to leave the hotel after dark as the kindly street folk we saw by day turned into vampirous murders as soon as the sun set, we were understandably loathe to leave the comfort of our respective dorm rooms. I may err towards the 'XL' section of pret a porter clothing emporia but I don't need five beds all to myself. Perhaps they were allowing for my permitted 4 wives.
Were it not for a current volunteer rocking up early evening with an invite to dine with a handful of other volunteers we would have been at, what many would describe as, "a loose end". Dine we did and it was good to meet some of the others who will be constituting the social scene for various amounts of time twixt now and '09. Joined various of their number for a dip on Sunday - of the chlorinated as opposed to Cream cheese and chives variety - which involved taking my first Moto-Taxi, the preferred mode of transport round these parts: a small and not fast motorcycle.
Nobody wears helmets except for me it seems, and in my excitement at having mastered the transport system so adeptly I sat just close enough to the driver to ensure that every time he touched the brakes I nutted him. Whether or not he noticed history didn't relate. He looked a little dazed when I got off but then again he looked a little dazed when I got on. Apparently it's not totally unknown for them to be stoned out of their skulls on one of any number of mind-altering substances.
Monday through today has largely been spent 'discovering' the heart and soul of this, the capital of extremely northern Cameroon either physically, geographically, gastronomically or, indeed, morally. The last of these has been by word of mouth and region specific briefing; the rest on foot, or Moto-taxi where necessary.
Some of the tales have been jaw-dropping it has to be said. Most memorable has to have been our gender briefing. For those of you who are as confused as I was when I saw this on the timetable, we're not being told what gender we are but how what gender one is, in this melting pot of cultures and beliefs, can have a seriously detrimental effect on your life.
In a country where "Is this is a polygamous marriage? Y/N" is one of the questions on the marriage certificate, it doesn't take a huge leap of the imagination to realise that, for the most part, that second X chromosome is a burden that would break the strongest of backs. There are of course exceptions, people who escaped the vicious cycle of childhood marriages to men 40 years their senior, or 'selling' themselves to their teachers to get better grades, but in this vast and multifaceted country and in this its most nomadic region, they are few and far between.
Part of my remit is to start an after school club for girls to encourage them to continue to the end of secondary education, here in a country when most of them consider themselves on the shelf if they're not married by 16. I've got to try and encourage their continued education in a country as a whole with very few female role models, not only that but also to get them to try and persuade their younger female siblings to do the same. The sad thing is, the generation I'm teaching will not be the ones who reap the rewards if indeed there are any. Their children may benefit, but in a country where surviving today is the challenge and tomorrow can wait it would be fair to say we've all got our work cut out.
Where do you start? I've no idea ... you can add the answer to that as a P.S. Incidentally, the best address for those who feel the urge/need ...
c/o VSO
B.P. 1004 Maroua
Extreme Nord
Cameroon
Djam Waala, as they say.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Best put the kettle on ... I may be some time.
What we've got here is ... failure to communicate.
Actually as you can probably tell that is far from the problem! Far too much communication many would say and I'm sure they'd probably be right. It's not my fault. Too much time on my own means I get a huge build up of words which I just have to get out the system ... the result is often messy and I apologise.
So here I am. Another Saturday another change of location. Next saturday sees another move, or at least the back of another move, and then I will be there. That's to say Godola. The location of my latest vocation. Met the boss today and what a charming chap he was ... if only all future bosses were that enthusiastic I feel that the world would be a better place. As I baffled him with my dodgy french he just shook me by the hand and kept shaking.
On Friday Godola becomes home and then dot dot dot
Sitting here in the Cameroonian Baptist Mission, Maroua, regional capital of the Extreme North and there's almost too much to say! Yaounde, the capital, was hot and humid and noisy and smelly and hazy and crowded and bustling and bursting and intimidating and fast paced. When we got on the train surrounded by all that, as well as hundreds of porters screaming for our business, Maroua seemed like a foreign country and to be fair that's about the sum of it. Heat aside this is a different country.
16 hours on the train which started by pulling through the kinds of areas that tourists never see; where resourcefulness is the difference between existing and shuffling from this mortal coil. People squeezed into the strangest of places, their only source of water a fetid pool of the kind that if you were to look at it for too long you'd probably contract something: a raw cholera based infusion of typhoid and dysentry evaporating from mosquito ridden pits ... Houses perched over railway lines, boardered by mountains of rubbish, the cast offs of someone elses life. Families one on top of the other, their clothes still as clean and vibrant as the day they were bought ... I've only been here a week and everything's already taken on an orange hue.
Everyone tells you that Yaounde is in a jungle but it's only when you leave that you understand the truth of this statement. It really is a jungle. Massive trees with car sized leaves; the deafening sound of a thousand courting insects and the sudden disappearance of the smell of pollution that abounds in the centre of town.
One thing I have noticed and which I feel I should share for the benefit of the masses is that night here doesn't so much fall as collapse. One minute it's dusk and the next nothing. Evening is a but a moment between day and night, and I mean literally a moment ... blink and you miss it, either that or think you've gone blind. The stars though ... wow. There is something incredibly comforting about the stars and oh my god are there a lot of them. In all my wanderings I've always found it vaguely reassuring to know that those self same stars I can see in Scotland, assuming I don't stray south of the equator, are there looking down on me pretty much anywhere else. Orion's belt may be a little skewed and the man himself struggling with the concept of upright but he's very much there ... when everything else is of the hang a left at the lights variety, it's nice to know that somethings are still the same.
With morning comes more difference. The jungle has made way for vast tracts of open savannah ... trees scattered here and there, villages similarly so. Settlements spawned by the "chemin de fer" ... restaurants and shops down either side. They may only have one car a day but it brings a lot of trade. Honey, fish, baton de manioc, even people looking for empty bottles. In India they serve tea in the most delicate clay cups you're mind can cope with. Not so here but the people look frighteningly familiar.
24 hours later we arrive: Maroua. And it's like a different country. The noise has gone and been replaced by silence. The smell is no longer the smell of people and their lives, of cars and their exhausts of the city. The smell is more akin to the smack in the face so favoured by the John Lewis's of this world, but then over the smell of rotting meat and humanity give me Jonelle any day.
The landscape is definitely not jungle ... Baobabs appear where they can and life goes on. Time means next to nothing which is the way it should be. Cameroon knows that she can't control time and so in mutual respect they doff their hats and continue on their way. Cameroon doesn't control time, nor does time control Cameroon.
It's all still a great big adventure waiting to happen and there'll be more cranial effluent where this came from ...
Carry on!
P.S. For those of you wondering why the first edition of this was quite so unformatted, and why the one below was originally all italics, the computer I was using didn't like publishing, so I had to email it ... think I probably did something wrong ... boh!
Actually as you can probably tell that is far from the problem! Far too much communication many would say and I'm sure they'd probably be right. It's not my fault. Too much time on my own means I get a huge build up of words which I just have to get out the system ... the result is often messy and I apologise.
So here I am. Another Saturday another change of location. Next saturday sees another move, or at least the back of another move, and then I will be there. That's to say Godola. The location of my latest vocation. Met the boss today and what a charming chap he was ... if only all future bosses were that enthusiastic I feel that the world would be a better place. As I baffled him with my dodgy french he just shook me by the hand and kept shaking.
On Friday Godola becomes home and then dot dot dot
Sitting here in the Cameroonian Baptist Mission, Maroua, regional capital of the Extreme North and there's almost too much to say! Yaounde, the capital, was hot and humid and noisy and smelly and hazy and crowded and bustling and bursting and intimidating and fast paced. When we got on the train surrounded by all that, as well as hundreds of porters screaming for our business, Maroua seemed like a foreign country and to be fair that's about the sum of it. Heat aside this is a different country.
16 hours on the train which started by pulling through the kinds of areas that tourists never see; where resourcefulness is the difference between existing and shuffling from this mortal coil. People squeezed into the strangest of places, their only source of water a fetid pool of the kind that if you were to look at it for too long you'd probably contract something: a raw cholera based infusion of typhoid and dysentry evaporating from mosquito ridden pits ... Houses perched over railway lines, boardered by mountains of rubbish, the cast offs of someone elses life. Families one on top of the other, their clothes still as clean and vibrant as the day they were bought ... I've only been here a week and everything's already taken on an orange hue.
Everyone tells you that Yaounde is in a jungle but it's only when you leave that you understand the truth of this statement. It really is a jungle. Massive trees with car sized leaves; the deafening sound of a thousand courting insects and the sudden disappearance of the smell of pollution that abounds in the centre of town.
One thing I have noticed and which I feel I should share for the benefit of the masses is that night here doesn't so much fall as collapse. One minute it's dusk and the next nothing. Evening is a but a moment between day and night, and I mean literally a moment ... blink and you miss it, either that or think you've gone blind. The stars though ... wow. There is something incredibly comforting about the stars and oh my god are there a lot of them. In all my wanderings I've always found it vaguely reassuring to know that those self same stars I can see in Scotland, assuming I don't stray south of the equator, are there looking down on me pretty much anywhere else. Orion's belt may be a little skewed and the man himself struggling with the concept of upright but he's very much there ... when everything else is of the hang a left at the lights variety, it's nice to know that somethings are still the same.
With morning comes more difference. The jungle has made way for vast tracts of open savannah ... trees scattered here and there, villages similarly so. Settlements spawned by the "chemin de fer" ... restaurants and shops down either side. They may only have one car a day but it brings a lot of trade. Honey, fish, baton de manioc, even people looking for empty bottles. In India they serve tea in the most delicate clay cups you're mind can cope with. Not so here but the people look frighteningly familiar.
24 hours later we arrive: Maroua. And it's like a different country. The noise has gone and been replaced by silence. The smell is no longer the smell of people and their lives, of cars and their exhausts of the city. The smell is more akin to the smack in the face so favoured by the John Lewis's of this world, but then over the smell of rotting meat and humanity give me Jonelle any day.
The landscape is definitely not jungle ... Baobabs appear where they can and life goes on. Time means next to nothing which is the way it should be. Cameroon knows that she can't control time and so in mutual respect they doff their hats and continue on their way. Cameroon doesn't control time, nor does time control Cameroon.
It's all still a great big adventure waiting to happen and there'll be more cranial effluent where this came from ...
Carry on!
P.S. For those of you wondering why the first edition of this was quite so unformatted, and why the one below was originally all italics, the computer I was using didn't like publishing, so I had to email it ... think I probably did something wrong ... boh!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
And so it begins ...
The sleeves are rolled down, I've doused myself in deet and have braved the swarms of mozis and, more surprisingly, bats - not little ones, great big fruit bats and literally thousands of them - to find myself firmly wedged in the middle of a trio of transatlantic types who've just had the good grace to inform me and the rest of this particularly hot and sweaty part of Africa that "No Scrubs" by that bastion of R & B brilliance, TLC, is without doubt their combined favourite track when it comes to number one songs to hear in a taxi.
What, by the way, is yours? What do you mean you don't have one?
'Perplexed' is, you'll be glad to hear, the word of the day. 'Discombobulated' was vying for a position at the top of the chart but my no(i)sy transatlantic neighbours may have taken umbrage at its syllable count and we don't want to go around upsetting people willy-nilly or we might force them do something they'll come to regret.
I shouldn't really be surprised to be fair. Not about them doing something they might come to regret but about the omnipresent bamboozlement. The omens were not that auspicious: by which I mean that my journey began with a conspicuously unintentional couple of laps around the visual delight that is Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2. Got the distinct impression that the pilot was looking for a parking space nearer the terminal but, as is so often the case, the only free one was everything but. Thankfully all was not lost. He did find one somewhere near the Belgian border. (An ex-employee of Michael O'Leary's perhaps ... old habits die hard.)
A mad dash ensued as time was something of the essence and so it was I parked my dainty hind-quarters in a sea of Saga-esque norweigan types whose female components sported such variety in the hair highlighting department that it looked as if they had been set upon by a gang of poster-paint wielding delinquents.
Question: Why is it that people who choose to sit in anything but aisle seats have the smallest bladders? And more to the point, what exactly did they find to do in the 14 hours they had sitting in the departure lounge? Is there something wrong with terrestrial toilet facilities that they feel they can only wee when they're in international airspace. Perhaps it's some kind of Duty Free thing. Can't say I was aware of having to pay tax on bodily excretions or have I been doing something wrong? And what's more, why do they all have bladders the size of thimbles?
Eh-hem.
"Shaken or stirred?" "Do I look like I give a dam!" I wasn't expecting you Mr Bond, but I have to say you were very welcome.
Now if I must be folded into a seat barely big enough to seat an anorexic Oompa Loompa, for 8 hours, unless me and my neighbour are on intimate terms then I think it's only right that the space afforded to me is mine and mine alone. Sadly my scandi-neighbour-ian nemesis was not of the same belief and managed to increase my discomfort further by insisting on peering over my shoulder to watch my showing of Casino Royale.
It was only through the medium of an Air France spork to the kidneys that I managed to persuade her she could actually watch it, or any number of other films, in her own language on the small screen, almost but not quite totally identical to mine, that had been kindly placed in the seat back in front of her by the good people at Airbus. The fact that the person in front of her seemed determined to soak Mme Norway with every liquid presented did take the edge off things slightly but, I mean, honestly: Can't they implement airline etiquette tests? When I'm King, ra ra ra
As flights go it went and that's the main thing. Immigration was a walk in the park. Albeit a dark park with a history of muggings and improbable geological traits and were it not for a vicar clearly unversed in the art of queuing there would have been little of note to report on.
So here I am. Cameroon's great and glorious capital. And what a capital it is.
Rome's got 7, Athens has a few, Edinburgh's got a handful and La Paz is surrounded by them but I don't think I've ever been to a city that's quite so hilly. I'd like to say mountainous as that sounds dramatic but it's difficult to get any idea of scale when visibility is as hampered as it is. Got driven up a hill to see the view and alas all that was to be seen was a large amount of haze and a Swissish type with a motorbike and pocket New Testament, perched in a manner that would make a Danish pine. [N.B. This is neither a tree nor an emotional cinnamon swirl ... think Copenhagen]
Pictorial evidence provided. Of the haze that is. Not the Swiss. Much like many things of Swiss inclination, he was a little too holy ... pun very much intended. Oh look, the picture has arrived ... aren't you lucky. No it hasn't, or if it has then good, if not then blame technology ...
Drove through the kind of crazed markets you don't believe exist until you find yourself in the middle of one in a white van that could so easily have been stolen from a UNICEF documentary. All it needed was Angelina and Brad, and Bob would have been your uncle, albeit only by marriage, and possibly only through an obscure semi-aunt who became part of the family by mistake.
[serious moment]
One of the things that we took in during our grand tour of Yaounde was the zoo. Now, I'm not going to moralise on zoos as in some very rare cases they can be justified, but sadly this was one example of what happens when things go wrong. Don't worry it's not going to cloud my judgement of the country as a whole as I'm sure, in its heyday, it was an entirely different experience.
The image though that will stalk me until my dying day is, somewhat ironically, that of one thing that probably would do just that in the flesh. The lion enclosure was noteworthy primarily for its size. As I've already said, no moralising but seriously: there's swinging a cat and there's housing a pair of adult lions.
The most distressing thing of all though, was the state of the male. While the female, stomach distended, languished in a soporific haze of recently consumed herbivore, her cage-mate, while mimicking her languishing, laboured under pained breaths, his pelvis, ribcage and spine making a bid for freedom through what was left of his skin. A haunch of the aforementioned herbivore lay at his feet but he didn't have the energy to even sniff it, let alone eat it, and it looked like that wasn't his first missed meal.
Distressing doesn't go nearly far enough.
[ends]
Zoo aside it was quite a tour. Barely a ministry passed without being pointed at, and a smile flashed across my face when I noted that the only one that wasn't situated in the kind of tottering monolithic edifice so keen on crashing to the ground in an apocalyptic manner was that for the Ministry for Health and Public Safety: itself a somewhat modest single storey construction. Irony is clearly as wasted on the Cameroonians as it is on the rest of the world (says he in his lofty British manner.)
The folk so far have been welcoming without being in your face and the staff in the Programme Office have done admirably, fetching, carrying and hosing down when required. As for my fellow volunteers, at this moment we are three: a Parisenne, a Mumbai-ian and li'l old me ... the absent two arrive tomorrow before the sparrows have even thought about farting. Four of us are destined to depart for Extremely Northern climes on Thursday; One of us heads coastwards. Til then we do what we must and twiddle our thumbs when necessary.
Today, I have to admit has been tough. We were meant to be busy with bureaucracy but because of the absence of 40% of our number, such excitement was postponed. Idle minds tend to wander where they shouldn't and mine spent a large part of today reminiscing about where it was this time last week and wondering why exactly it was here.
When you rationalise it and put it into the context of first day in a new job life becomes that little bit easier ... besides, it's self inflicted.Can't wait to get to where I'm going but have to admit that a little over 24 hours in, can't help but wonder whether my jaw is up to the work.
What, by the way, is yours? What do you mean you don't have one?
'Perplexed' is, you'll be glad to hear, the word of the day. 'Discombobulated' was vying for a position at the top of the chart but my no(i)sy transatlantic neighbours may have taken umbrage at its syllable count and we don't want to go around upsetting people willy-nilly or we might force them do something they'll come to regret.
I shouldn't really be surprised to be fair. Not about them doing something they might come to regret but about the omnipresent bamboozlement. The omens were not that auspicious: by which I mean that my journey began with a conspicuously unintentional couple of laps around the visual delight that is Charles de Gaulle Terminal 2. Got the distinct impression that the pilot was looking for a parking space nearer the terminal but, as is so often the case, the only free one was everything but. Thankfully all was not lost. He did find one somewhere near the Belgian border. (An ex-employee of Michael O'Leary's perhaps ... old habits die hard.)
A mad dash ensued as time was something of the essence and so it was I parked my dainty hind-quarters in a sea of Saga-esque norweigan types whose female components sported such variety in the hair highlighting department that it looked as if they had been set upon by a gang of poster-paint wielding delinquents.
Question: Why is it that people who choose to sit in anything but aisle seats have the smallest bladders? And more to the point, what exactly did they find to do in the 14 hours they had sitting in the departure lounge? Is there something wrong with terrestrial toilet facilities that they feel they can only wee when they're in international airspace. Perhaps it's some kind of Duty Free thing. Can't say I was aware of having to pay tax on bodily excretions or have I been doing something wrong? And what's more, why do they all have bladders the size of thimbles?
Eh-hem.
"Shaken or stirred?" "Do I look like I give a dam!" I wasn't expecting you Mr Bond, but I have to say you were very welcome.
Now if I must be folded into a seat barely big enough to seat an anorexic Oompa Loompa, for 8 hours, unless me and my neighbour are on intimate terms then I think it's only right that the space afforded to me is mine and mine alone. Sadly my scandi-neighbour-ian nemesis was not of the same belief and managed to increase my discomfort further by insisting on peering over my shoulder to watch my showing of Casino Royale.
It was only through the medium of an Air France spork to the kidneys that I managed to persuade her she could actually watch it, or any number of other films, in her own language on the small screen, almost but not quite totally identical to mine, that had been kindly placed in the seat back in front of her by the good people at Airbus. The fact that the person in front of her seemed determined to soak Mme Norway with every liquid presented did take the edge off things slightly but, I mean, honestly: Can't they implement airline etiquette tests? When I'm King, ra ra ra
As flights go it went and that's the main thing. Immigration was a walk in the park. Albeit a dark park with a history of muggings and improbable geological traits and were it not for a vicar clearly unversed in the art of queuing there would have been little of note to report on.
So here I am. Cameroon's great and glorious capital. And what a capital it is.
Rome's got 7, Athens has a few, Edinburgh's got a handful and La Paz is surrounded by them but I don't think I've ever been to a city that's quite so hilly. I'd like to say mountainous as that sounds dramatic but it's difficult to get any idea of scale when visibility is as hampered as it is. Got driven up a hill to see the view and alas all that was to be seen was a large amount of haze and a Swissish type with a motorbike and pocket New Testament, perched in a manner that would make a Danish pine. [N.B. This is neither a tree nor an emotional cinnamon swirl ... think Copenhagen]
Pictorial evidence provided. Of the haze that is. Not the Swiss. Much like many things of Swiss inclination, he was a little too holy ... pun very much intended. Oh look, the picture has arrived ... aren't you lucky. No it hasn't, or if it has then good, if not then blame technology ...
Drove through the kind of crazed markets you don't believe exist until you find yourself in the middle of one in a white van that could so easily have been stolen from a UNICEF documentary. All it needed was Angelina and Brad, and Bob would have been your uncle, albeit only by marriage, and possibly only through an obscure semi-aunt who became part of the family by mistake.
[serious moment]
One of the things that we took in during our grand tour of Yaounde was the zoo. Now, I'm not going to moralise on zoos as in some very rare cases they can be justified, but sadly this was one example of what happens when things go wrong. Don't worry it's not going to cloud my judgement of the country as a whole as I'm sure, in its heyday, it was an entirely different experience.
The image though that will stalk me until my dying day is, somewhat ironically, that of one thing that probably would do just that in the flesh. The lion enclosure was noteworthy primarily for its size. As I've already said, no moralising but seriously: there's swinging a cat and there's housing a pair of adult lions.
The most distressing thing of all though, was the state of the male. While the female, stomach distended, languished in a soporific haze of recently consumed herbivore, her cage-mate, while mimicking her languishing, laboured under pained breaths, his pelvis, ribcage and spine making a bid for freedom through what was left of his skin. A haunch of the aforementioned herbivore lay at his feet but he didn't have the energy to even sniff it, let alone eat it, and it looked like that wasn't his first missed meal.
Distressing doesn't go nearly far enough.
[ends]
Zoo aside it was quite a tour. Barely a ministry passed without being pointed at, and a smile flashed across my face when I noted that the only one that wasn't situated in the kind of tottering monolithic edifice so keen on crashing to the ground in an apocalyptic manner was that for the Ministry for Health and Public Safety: itself a somewhat modest single storey construction. Irony is clearly as wasted on the Cameroonians as it is on the rest of the world (says he in his lofty British manner.)
The folk so far have been welcoming without being in your face and the staff in the Programme Office have done admirably, fetching, carrying and hosing down when required. As for my fellow volunteers, at this moment we are three: a Parisenne, a Mumbai-ian and li'l old me ... the absent two arrive tomorrow before the sparrows have even thought about farting. Four of us are destined to depart for Extremely Northern climes on Thursday; One of us heads coastwards. Til then we do what we must and twiddle our thumbs when necessary.
Today, I have to admit has been tough. We were meant to be busy with bureaucracy but because of the absence of 40% of our number, such excitement was postponed. Idle minds tend to wander where they shouldn't and mine spent a large part of today reminiscing about where it was this time last week and wondering why exactly it was here.
When you rationalise it and put it into the context of first day in a new job life becomes that little bit easier ... besides, it's self inflicted.Can't wait to get to where I'm going but have to admit that a little over 24 hours in, can't help but wonder whether my jaw is up to the work.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Broadsword this is Danny Boy. Come in. Over.
I am here.
It is hot.
The keyboard is french which means that while "the quick sly fox doesn't jump over the lazy brown dog", instead it "junps over the lqwy brozn dog" ... as for the numbers and puctuation, don't get me started!
I'll try not get too confusing but if there are rogue letters, you'll understand my plight ...
Will pontificate further when time permits ... just to say I'm here, safe, a little perplexed and starving hungry ... lunch beckons though, as may dysentry.
Woo and, dare I say it, hoo.
It is hot.
The keyboard is french which means that while "the quick sly fox doesn't jump over the lazy brown dog", instead it "junps over the lqwy brozn dog" ... as for the numbers and puctuation, don't get me started!
I'll try not get too confusing but if there are rogue letters, you'll understand my plight ...
Will pontificate further when time permits ... just to say I'm here, safe, a little perplexed and starving hungry ... lunch beckons though, as may dysentry.
Woo and, dare I say it, hoo.
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