Near Year Update

A-salot wuna! (I salute you all in Pidgin English). Hello from Cameroon! I know it’s been too long. So, here we go.

I am still equally as enthusiastic about my Peace Corps service as I was in the very beginning—maybe even more so now. I have been in country for over a year and living in Fundong for almost a full year. It is downright astonishing how fast the time has been moving. Come December I will have lived in Fundong for an entire year—it’ll be the halfway point of my service!

Before this becomes a wild cluster whirl of scribbled chaos let me try to organize this rant into overarching categories. My work now. My trip home. The future.

My Work Now is going all sorts of fantastically. I almost do not even believe it myself. Since we left off we have been quite busy in Better Family Foundation (BFF). Firstly, with much thanks to my amazing family and friends BFF was able to earn a permanent spot on GlobalGiving.org and Omprakash.org! This is an amazing landmark success for BFF. By becoming permanent partners with these two NGOs ultimately equates to access to international donors and an improved web presence. Both of which will help ensure BFF a more steady and sustainable future. Now BFF is able to collect donations and have them sent directly to Fundong without any middle people—whether it is Peace Corps Volunteers or other partnering NGOs. This is all sorts of terrific. Also, the idea of increased web presence, while it sounds like a completely ridiculous idea, is indeed incredibly important and powerful. Since becoming part of these two organizations our credibility as an NGO has been nicely articulated and further substantiated.  How am I measuring that success? Well, based on the number of other US based NGOs who reach out to us regarding potential partnerships; not to mention how many people express interest in short-term positions with our organization. We’re moving in an amazing direction!

Since April BFF has raised over $5,700 in donations! Over $4,000 of which went directly into the Alim-Boyui Community Water Project which completely rehabilitated the two village’s water system. In the end BFF was able to stretch the money and manage the project so well that we repaired 5 existing standpipes, constructed 25 new standpipes, fix at least 100 meters of broken pipeline, sensitize the two village and train a water management committee. Drinking water for everybody!

Towards the tail end of the summer BFF began a Child Sponsor Project under our Direct Financial Support Program. At first we aimed to sponsor a total of ten school children. As we began receiving donations we increased that number to twenty school children. We hoped to supply their books, uniforms and PTA fee which is essentially tuition—the government claims education is free but in reality does not supply schools with nearly enough money to operate so principals form PTAs in order to fill the monetary gap. Up until now we have raise $1,503! An amazing start. We have decided to sponsor a total of 18 children—11 primary children and 8 secondary students. Any remaining money will be rolled over into next year’s program. We decided this because we understand that we’ve yet to fully execute the project and realize we’re only bound to encounter many difficulties which we’d like to learn how to navigate before we began investing lots of money into the project.

 

Interviewing Nkwi Hestine-- this is, more or less, what Child Sponsoring looks like. At least the leg work behind it all.

Do note these children are NOT playing Simon Says, despite what the photo may lead you to believe. And yes, chances are they may be slightly confused.

 

And education! It’s BFF’s third, and longest running, programming area. Before I left for my month leave I had been working with two health care workers who are also BFF members in designing a course attempting to tackle Diabetes and Hypertension. The seminar series aims to sensitize community groups on early detection and helpful ways to avoid and/or mitigate either of the diseases—chiefly through nutrition and other lifestyle changes. We were moving along quite swiftly up until just about two weeks before my departure. One of the women I was working with fell sick and then shortly after the other experienced a death in the family—and if you recall Cry-Die’s are quite an event here and take up an immense amount of time. Now that I am back we’re regrouping and fleshing out the last of the work in order to begin in hopefully a month’s time.

In this very instant, other than the nutrition course, I am helping manage the Ameng Community Water Project. It is going incredibly well—the smoothest one yet! The community is awesomely enthusiastic and so hard working. Only small issue I am noticing is that they prefer to work only on ‘Country Sunday’—which occurs every eight days. This is slowing us up, but only by a bit. All in all, it’s going awesomely. The funding from this came from a Small Project Assistance (SPA) Grant which is channeled through Peace Corp Cameroon through USAID. Thanks, Uncle Sam.

By early 2013 a Seattle based NGO will arrive in Fundong to work with BFF and the local Fujua orphanage on infrastructural improvements. Now we’re in a serious planning phase in order to prep for the volunteer’s/NGO’s arrival.

 

Also—Simon has his eyes on HIV/AIDs interventions. He’s some great ideas on the approach to. He’d like to target youths by holding a sort of summer camp touching not only on sex education but other important life skills training. He doesn’t want to leave out the adults either—so he is thinking about revamping an old BFF marriage seminar which will give our NGO an opportunity to broach the subject in a less abrasive fashion. I am really excited to begin helping organize all of this—especially should we find some help from other NGOs it could turn to be a very large scale project.

With all of this going on I am continually reminded that I’ve many other little things I’d like to do work-wise here before I leave. The biggest, and maybe most important thing as I see it, is to create a computer literacy manual for BFF members so that they too can understand and productively use a computer to continue all of this work after I leave.

That’s my work, in a nutshell.

My Trip Home was also all sorts of fantastic! I really enjoyed the vacation back to the USA. It was, at first, a bit of a culture shock—endless food, endless running water, endless electricity, endless paved roads. Within the first week, and definitely by the second week, I felt back home. It was so wonderful seeing my family and friends. It was really nice hanging around with my mother and stepfather—though it sometimes seemed I was barely home. I was even lucky enough to shoot up to New Hampshire to see my father and his side of the family—unfortunately I missed out on my cousins wedding which just passed in September but I was lucky to surprise an old best friend’s wedding and enter wearing traditional Kom clothing to the Lion King Theme song. As you’re probably imagining it was a fun night. 

Popping in and out of New York City visiting friends, eating in fun restaurants, dancing, catching waves, rekindling old love affairs (yes yes, I am taken now! It’s all sorts of wonderful and exciting), seeing old friends, making new friends, visiting old high school stomping grounds, reliving many old and cherished memories all the while creating new ones—it was nostalgic to say the least. There was a change happening, slowly.

My future was quite uncertain before the end of my trip home, honestly. If you had asked me what my plans were after my Peace Corps service I was most likely to tell you I planned on extending my service. That tentative plan had not really been thought out, by any means. I knew I really enjoyed what I was doing (and still am/still do!), I was certain I would be welcome another year at my post, I felt that the work I was doing was affective and productive. Why not extend?

But after being home for some time I realized and remembered a few things. I remembered that basically all of my major support networks (family, friends, etc.) are in the States. I realized that many of my friends were very lucky to being ‘Playing Life’ as we say in Pidigin while in their 20’s. This is to say they have decent jobs, live in nice apartments, have fun on the weekends and occasional weekdays, save money, travel; you know, do the damn thing. I also realized many of my friends are trying to get to that point but are still managing quite well even if they haven’t quite made it yet. I realized that development work is multi-faceted and can be done, in a way, virtually anywhere. I remembered I’ve a wild love for New York City. I realized I’ve a stellar relationship to come home to and give time to grow. I remembered I’ve an obligation to my student loans that I am hell bent of freeing myself from. I feel like there were more realizations and things remembered but let’s leave it there for now. All in all—after my Peace Corps service I am planning to come back to the US, find a decent job, pay some bills, let this love grow, enjoy and then see what the next step is. Sounds good, right? No—it sounds great.

In other cultural news pertaining to Kom I will shortly become a ‘titled’ man at the Kom Palace! The Fon told me during my last visit he will give me a red feather, thus making me a ‘Chindo’. A Chindo (or more often times referred to as a Chinda by other Northwest ethnic groups) is an honored title for men here in Kom. It is essentially an extension of the palace. This is incredibly exciting as it will give me an honest glimpse into traditional Kom culture and practices. I am really excited and honored to soon receive this title! With it comes some rights and rules—so I must becareful to abide by the rules soon to be imposed on me otherwise I’ll have to ‘pay a fine’ to the Palace—literally, like give them 50 cents if I do something wrong. Otherwise it’s pretty awesome. When I enter any palace in the Northwest Region I must enter through a special door, I get to sit on the privileged side of any palace courtyard. It’s pretty stellar. Most importantly I get to finally walk around Bamenda while wearing my country cap and have people accurately identify who/what I am.

 (Background on the hats. The Northwest Region in comprised of so many different ethnic groups—all who have unique cultures and traditions, though similar in many ways. So, for Kom people any man may wear a country cap. There is no need for a titled position from the palace. If you like the hat, you can wear it. It is, though, more likely that an older man/powerful man would wear it—but not always. In many other parts of the Northwest—chiefly in Banso (either Banso or Kom is the largest ethnic group in the NW)—to wear such a hat means you have a title. So as I walk around Bamenda people are always shouting out, ‘Hey, Shufyi!’, ‘Hey, Shay!’ attempting to guess who has titled me/what my title is. I always have to explain I don’t wear a title, Kom people don’t need a title, but you can call me ‘Bo-Mucum’ (Father of Jujus).  Now, it’ll be, “Hey, Chinda!” While I will officially be a Chindo—it’s close enough. Beats being called, ‘Hey, white man.’).

So! This is my life for the time being. It’s all sorts of wonderful and I wish each and every one of you reading this could be here to experience it with me! Nothing but love and smiles for the motherland.

When Macro Level Decisions Smack Children in the Face

Let me begin by saying I can literally preface this conversation until the day I die. Discussions surrounding development are quite complex. They often employ an infinitely wide vocabulary, use an outlandish and disconnected system of metrics, possess and present a specific worldview which almost always leads us to believe there is an obvious and finite goal/answer to the problem that has been posed as development.  And, of course, the conversation surrounding development cannot even be broached without beginning to delve into, or at least recognize, the world’s turbulent social historical context. This is to say the history of the last 500 years and the havoc it has reeked on every facet of human life—social, political, economic, environmental. Macro level decisions making—through a lens that has been clouded for over 500 years but still is able to so articulately carry it’s baggage—effecting the very most micro details of daily interactions. It’s loaded, it’s stuffy, it’s interesting, it’s engaging, it’s difficult, it’s passionate, it’s academic’s livelihood’s, it’ people’s extravagantness and decadence  and it’s people’s grim realities, it’s life and it may be death.

The question was posed; “What will you eat tonight?”

The answer, bound to be forever haunting, was meekly and embarrassingly muttered as 9 year old Marbel was holding both a broken umbrella and her younger sister’s hand, “I don’t know.”

The sisters were from the hospital where they visited with their sick mother. They had taken some brief shelter from the pouring rain in Rose’s mattress store before they endured the rest of the nearly two mile walk, uphill (literally) to their neighboring village of Ngwainkuma. That is the village where Rose and Simon live—so they were a bit more aware of the children’s desperate situation. Just as they stepped into the rain is when Simon asked them that. He later informed me that the girls’ father would not take their mother to the hospital—reasons unknown. He had only supported the mother with 100CFA ($0.20 USDs) worth of bread after she had already stay the night at the hospital.

This instance happened at the end of my long day.

What do USAID pledges, Millennium Development Goals or bilateral grant agreements mean when you hear those words? I am literally not sure.

Hearing Marbel say those words came after an exhausting launch of our Child Sponsor Project—which, coincidently, Marbel’s name is on our list of potential candidates. The entire day was spent moving through small villages trying to  interview a few children that were identified as marginalized (both socially and/or economically) and were hence having trouble staying enrolled in school.

In order for us to better understand their situation we created what were meant to be short interview questions—which we discovered when dealing with children with terribly depressed aspirations our questionnaire was anything but short. Time and time again we were met with children who were so incredibly timid and gruesomely shy. I had never seen this side of Cameroon. Sure, I have been inside many houses made of merely clay bricks, kitchen fire pit in the middle of the dirt floor, the walls lined by exposed foam mattresses and corn hanging to dry. I’ve seen this side of Cameroon before. But I have never experienced such shy and timid children. Maybe it was the clipboard, maybe it was two unknown white people, maybe it was my sandals— I literally do not know. But every next child became more shy, recluse and unsure of themselves than the last. The only answers the children would not wallow over was,  

‘How many school uniforms do you have?’ 

Every single child immediately answered, with confidence, ‘One.’  The next question was ‘Does the child have alternative dresses other than the uniform? Approximately how many?’ Without a blink of an eye each child would name the number—none of the children needed more than six fingers to show us the number. It was, for me at least, tiring trying to press through these surveys.

How many articles of clothing do you have? Do you know immediately off the top of your head? Or better yet, can you count them on one hand?

These were, no. These are aggressive realities. I had believed I have been bearing witness to people living in poverty during my time here in Cameroon. I honestly believed I had been. Maybe I had been bearing witness from a far—maybe.  I am actually not even sure, quite honestly. I say this because after today I feel like everything I’ve been ‘bearing witness’ to has actually been barely bared.

Have you ever met a child who told you his favorite food is white rice? And to think that it is actually the price of rice that may make it his favorite—seeing it’s least accessible for his family. I suppose I never fathomed actually meeting somebody where the price of rice actually played an impactful part of their life. I’ve spent years talking about these populations of the world inside university classrooms. I’ve spent 9 months living amongst people who are very much members of these populations. Today I sat next to these children and families and discussed with them. Timid, raw and vibrant power those conversations had.

After being obviously a bit shaken up I tried to reassure myself that my efforts are thoroughly thought out, thoughtfully targeted, accurately aimed and efficiently executed. In the end, did I convince myself? Bullishly and dogmatically, yes—absolutely. But as I further investigate it I begin to fall into dissecting my every thought about development work. I believe taking this jaunt is most certainly a good exercise—but a dangerous doomsday end all type of jaunt.

Of all the mixed emotions and uncertainty I faced throughout the day—there is one resounding fact that remains: the reality of these families and children is a direct product of structural violence/aggression. Macro level decisions and policies deciding even the minutest facets of a person’s life.

Whenever I am faced with mass uncertainty about a specific instance regarding social progress, development, revolution, etc, what have you. I am always falling back on an academic’s words. Immanuel Wallenstein talks much about socio-political movements. He, seemingly, concludes that it is of paramount importance to remember there should be three types of goals working simultaneously: short, medium and long term goals. As I get flustered and cluttered with my own thoughts, compliments of my massive student loan debt, I fall back on that idea. There are many things moving all at once, macro and micro. There are many things changing all the time, from the institutional to the individual. Keeping a sort of focus, even if unclear, on the direct we’re working towards with the different tiers of set goals in mind is as important as air. More on this later.

But for now. Found yourself thinking or saying ‘holy shit’ while reading any of this? Want to take an action—either big or small? Allow me propose a few ideas…Think micro level solution for macro level problem—a small action to begin moving towards a short term goal (and maybe a medium term goal in some cases).

Consider making a donation to help sponsor a child to go to school. You can even sponsor Marbel. Or if you’re able to wait a few weeks, you can read profiles of all the interviewed children and even choose to sponsor one directly. For as little as $6USDs per month you can provide books, tuition and uniforms for one primary school student. Whether you’d like a direct connection or would rather just give and know it’s going somewhere—check it out on the website of the NGO I am working with.

Leave a comment on this blog and begin because while giving jump start finances to a child’s education is important—being able to understand and articulate how these circumstances are a direct product of structural violence/aggression may be even more important.

Share these ideas/realities with a friend.

(annndddddd I’m done preaching).

On Giving

There is an awesome amount of reasoning I am where I am right now—in Cameroon, Africa that is. I pressed quite adamantly to my current employer (I use this term loosely), Peace Corps, to send me somewhere in Sub-Saharan Africa. Well, here I am in the heart of a great mélange of culture, worlds and Central Africa’s Cameroon. And I could not be much happier.

One of the chief reasons I wanted to come to this continent was to learn. From what I have gathered before I left, there are many lessons to be learned here—and not lessons that I would learn by trial and error in my public health work but lessons Africans have to teach us Westerner’s by simply living in the manor  that they have been living for thousands of years.

Giving

The culture surrounding giving—not simply gifts but just giving in general—is astonishing. It becomes even more amazing when you put these exchanges into context, take into account people’s positionality and begin to compare giving here to giving in the Western world. Giving is also curiously troubling at times too here in Cameroon too.

Sharing is caring. Sharing, here, seemingly is the act of giving something of yours, no matter how little quantity of it you may have or how valuable it is to you, to your brother, sister, cousin, family, neighbor and/or simply an acquaintance that is coincidently passing by.

Here, sharing seems to be much more of a practice as opposed to a concept. I say this because, unlike many of our cultural identities in the USA, sharing is not substantiated by words, stories, or a shared understanding of an out-of-touch idealized paradigm that fakes itself to be cultural norm. Sharing here is substantiated by practice.

Let’s get right into examples—and while you read simply reflect if you envision this happening in your day-to-day routine.

It should be known that I first experienced such gracious giving when I met my host family. I cannot even begin to try to inventory all that they have given to me—even if I tried.

The idea of sharing

I had recently asked a woman who sells peanuts in front of Simon and Rose’s (my counterpart) store if she would knit me a few hats—she knits these traditional hats that Kom people while selling the peanuts. I know her decently well--I have already bought one from her and therefore know she is a hat making guru. I also know that her sister just died which means she most likely put some more financial stress on herself by helping pay for the burial.  After a tiny amount of bargaining she was on her way to knitting me three hats to be given as gifts.

As I have discussed in other blog posts I am a fierce bargainer—sometimes this crafty knack I have leaves me walking away feeling like a scoundrel. In the case of my hat knitting friend, it took me all of ten minutes to walk away realizing that 3 USDs for these hand knitted hats is far too cheap; especially taking into account that she knits them very well and, while Peace Corps doesn’t give me an overwhelming plush amount of money, I am living quite comfortable here in comparison to my neighbors so I, therefore, can afford a bit more. This was all confirmed when Simon learned that I’d be paying only 1500 CFA to her. He was astonishingly impressed I had talked her down to 1500CFA. We agreed it’d be a just gesture of me to ‘dash’ (gift) her something at some point. Problem solved.

As a dash I was thinking of first surprising her with some black beans and puff-puff—it’s some of the best street food in all of Fundong (actually all of the Northwest Region for that matter). As I was passing her toward the beans and puff-puff lady she had hollered at me and asked for a ‘sweet’ which means a  soda. Perfect—why not give her something she really wants. This works out best too because of the concept of the ‘proud beggar’—that will be for another blog post. So I got a Fanta.

Upon arriving to her jobsite—a chair outside the bar where she sells peanuts and knits these wonderful hats—she gets up and walks inside the bar. Where is she going, I think? She is going to get another glass for me so that I too may enjoy this Fanta with her. Wonderful.  As she genuinely and graciously thanks me somebody walks by us and asks her to drink some Fanta. She is up out of her chair again, back into the bar to borrow another glass so that this passer-by may enjoy Fanta too. There was no hesitation, no sighing, no groaning or moaning—just action. Time to share.

You can even see this type of selfless behavior in children. I cannot recall a time here where I have given one of the children in/around my compound something—especially food—that wasn’t then further shared with any and everybody in remote visible sight. Even the smallest piece of chocolate is shared. I gave a young girl a piece of my peppermint Ghirardelli chocolate that my mother had sent me. Now this was a tiny piece, a piece of a piece. I, like usual, chomped my half down without even let air touch the chocolate and she nibbled at it so slowly I was confused. When Borris, one of the boys who lives close by, came by we discovered he had actually never tasted this particular chocolate I have. Not to worry! The young girl simply grabs the chocolate lingering in her mouth and passes it on to Borris to try. Mind you, Borris at this time has his own sweet treat; he was eating ‘Alaska’ (flavored ice).

Now, when I was a child and somebody gave me a chocolate it became mine. It is for my enjoyment and there is no obligation for me to necessarily share it with anybody. We seem to apply serious boundaries to gifts and things that we receive. I am certain that few children, under any circumstances, would cease enjoy the chocolate in their very mouth in order to give it to a fellow friend—especially somebody who is already enjoying a special treat for themselves. It is wonderful, simply something to learn from.

Insert the Politics of Being White into Giving

While we, as Westerners, have much to learn on the practice of giving here in Cameroon it could easily be overlooked when you put my (or our) personal context of being a Westerner into the practice of giving and receiving here.

We, materially, have so much more than nearly every Cameroonian. I have so many more things than many of my neighbors.

There is a culture here surrounding giving that makes it entirely permissible to walk up to a potential stranger or loose acquaintance and press that she/he buys you something—usually a sweet, a beer, a candy, small food etc. This is how it goes. Lots of the time people buy things for each other.

There is an incredibly rich set of circumstances/instances where demands like this are permissible. For brief example—if somebody compliments you about your clothing it could be permissible to ask that they buy you a small something as a token of appreciation. Also, when it is your birthday you buy other people drinks. If somebody asks you for something point blanche it is difficult flipping the question back and ask them why they don’t buy you something—answer being they asked first. And if you are hosting a party or invite somebody to something you are expected to provide for that person—no questions asked. The list goes on, but this is to simply put some of the big ones out there.

Now, even with this knowledge, as a person who resembles a White man here in Cameroon, treading becomes difficult. There are plenty of people seemingly looking for others (especially Western folks) to give them something. It is difficult to adhere to these cultural norms of giving; especially when in relation to near strangers simply asking you for a bottle of soda for no apparent reason. But then we remember the culture and context of giving and sharing here in Cameroon—and I feel like a punk for refusing to surrender 12 cents for some puff-puffs for a stranger. Did I miss an honest moment to share in an ancient and awesome cultural exchange of sharing or am I simply satisfying this clowns selfish desire to eat some free puff-puffs while further propagating a colonial legacy that pale folks are good for free hand-outs. How can I chance it?

What I am trying to convey is that navigating the beautifully selfless cultural practice of giving while sifting out the selfish attempts of exploiting that same very culture, as an outsider, is difficult. Very difficult. We, as long term visitors/quasi citizens who don’t bare physical resemblance to our neighbors, can easily (very easily) become jaded by all those individuals who will approach us and simply ask for something for no reason. It’s all too easy to become bitter and resentful at somebody asking for a simple soda.

What do I try to do to keep all of this clear and in order in my head—just think of those kids.

The Politics of Being White in Black Spaces.

Balance and Equality in my Microcosm?

Nearly every culture has some remote concern for finding, achieving and maintaining a balance of sorts—a sort of equality. It’s, seemingly, at the core of my existence and it is seems to be a delicate dance. When the time comes for me to write a little something for my loved ones back home I am often overjoyed and overwhelmed by the prospects of what I will discuss. If you have yet to realize—I’ve a few things to share. I am gaining so much from my experience here thus far; so much I am sometimes fearful that over the next twenty-six months I will not be able to replenish what Cameroon has given to me in simply four. Will I be able to balance it out? So, I write.

Today I finally began reading Paul Farmer’s ‘Pathologies of Power’. I feel as if I am taking a fresh breathe. This isn’t necessarily a new breathe, by no means, but simply a reassuring crisp toke of a reinvigorating earthly fire that comes from the pursuit of social justice. Delicious, actually. Eduardo Galeano’s genius fills the first pages:

The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who are no, but could be. Who don’t speak languages, but dialects. Who don’t have religions, but superstitions. Who don’t create art, but handicrafts. Who don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources. Who do not have faces, but arms. Who do not have names, but numbers. Who do no appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper. The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them. Eduardo Galeano ‘The Nobodies’.

The Politics of Being White in Black Spaces

Firstly, let us be reminded that the constructions of what is ‘White’ and ‘Black’ drive the paradigms of this discussion—hence its need.  Also, let us remind ourselves that those who carry a paler complex, ie. ‘Whites’, are indeed the minorities worldwide. Yet, ‘White’ culture has, interestingly enough, infiltrated every facet of social hierarchy across the globe. It’s incredible, to a degree—just look at the history and it makes much more sense to me. There are so many different directions I’d like to take this idea but for now I will simply illustrate some instances in my life where this being ‘white’  in a ‘black’ space has made me smile, or infuriated, or laugh.

Politics are so incredibly interesting—I loathe them in general, but they are still intriguing and hence interesting. We all seem to have different sets of comportment based upon where we are—well, at least most of us have been trained to adapt our behavior according to our physical space. I am never ceased to be amazed at experience the interactions between ‘white folks’ in ‘black spaces’.

White Politicking in Kennedy’s Friend Chicken—Binghamton, New York

While I spent most of my formative years either inside of or close to New York City, maybe one of the most diverse places on the continent, this conversation did not find itself into my dialogue until I moved to Binghamton, New York—a small post-industrial boom town which has certainly passed it’s ‘hay day’. It is where I attended university during my undergraduate years. It is a remarkable place with so much dynamic I am not even sure I have the energy to try to substantiate it. Unjustly brief I will put it this way: imagine a place where you can find: art galleries, AK-47s, Victorian mansions on the riverside, Walmart, streets which have laws posted that if you ‘circle the block’ you will receive a fine, students, indie arts/crafts/book stores, international grocery stores, gay bars/clubs, fine-dining, hotdog stands and fire escapes made out of wood (like, seriously).

Upon moving into an ‘off-campus’ apartment on the North side of town is where I began attuning my sociological imagination to this idea of being white in a black space. We pale folks are rarely forced to do this—it is most often by shear choice. In my case, living at 5 Mather Street was a choice—one I was happy to make, actually. My family members, from both New England and New York, were alarmed to see where I lived upon visiting. My mother, in particular, was less than pleased, so say the very least. I remember somebody once asking if it was okay to park their car on my street—I think it was half jokingly but it was that serious undertone that lingered as they punctuated the question mark that led me to believe they were serious. I’ve also had plenty of friends ask me this too. Of the five apartment buildings on my immediate block, two were boarded up and bombed out. My neighbors were pleasant, overall. Some of them got by as small entrepreneurs babysitting and sell drugs, others as mechanics and building supers, some as gainlessly unemployed and us students with student loans. As rough as Mather Street appeared, and was, I, or anybody I knew, ever had any issues there. Maybe this is luck, maybe wit, maybe it speaks to how powerful white privilege actually is. That discussion is for another blog.

It was a sort of weekend ritual of my roommate, Ilya, and I to go out on weekends, enjoy ourselves and find some late night comfort food at Kennedy’s Friend Chicken just two blocks away from us. For those of you not from the New York City area, or generally familiar with rap songs from the turn of the millennium, Kennedy’s Friend Chicken is a pillar of an institution in inner-city neighborhoods. I have never seen one outside of Brooklyn until we found this gem in Binghamton. Recently it was closed down by a Binghamton city ordinance; it was cited to be ‘a public nuisance’ as a result of a long history of fights, open container violations, loitering and one drive-by shooting. Ill-regard, it was deliciously amazing and we enjoyed nearly every moment inside the Binghamton franchise owned by a depressingly overworked Iraqi Kurd named Ak.

It’s late, maybe around 2:30am, I am mesmerized by the seemingly endless menu of Kennedy’s Fried combo deals—all which never actually give you a deal if you do the math—I am also alone, so no sidekick to bounce any ideas off of. While gazing, and acknowledging I’m destine for a soon-to-be food coma induced haze, I am trying to stay in what is a shy semblance of a line that somehow fluidly moves inside the relatively chaotic, but calm if you ask me, store front. Bullet proof glass windows make everybody’s order known as shouts bounce from the glass to the back of the store. “Lot of action here—what to order?” I’m mulling to myself. I feel a light tap on the shoulder but I don’t want to break my focus for anything right now. I assumed it was just a waving arm—a simply mistake undeserving of an apathetic, but socially acceptable, ‘Sorry, dude.’ Well, I was wrong, it was actually somebody trying to get my attention. Before I have the chance to look back I feel a person move in towards my shoulder and say quietly, ‘Looks like we’re the only white dudes in here, huh?’ My eyes must have opened so wide it looked like I just read a sign that Ak hung in the window saying ‘Free All-U-Can-Eat Buffet Tonight.’ Only difference was, I wasn’t ecstatic, to say the least.

Now I frequent here enough to know I have never seen him here before—I say this because I see many other familiar faced late-night chicken lovers.

 I am mortified by his comment, outraged too. It seems that the demographic make-up of Kennedy’s was so novelty to him he was forced to state the obvious. I almost was about to write that he pointed out the elephant in the room; but the truth is I am not even sure if there was an elephant in the room. There certainly wasn’t an elephant in the room in my mind, and I am pretty sure not in the minds of all the other non-white people in the room scurrying to get their order in while chit-chattering about the night. I mean, does this guy even understand how delicious the Beef-Patty’s are or did he come to Kennedy’s on a bet, or for ‘the experience.’

I am not even sure how I ended up responding—probably a horrifically apathetic, ‘Yea, brah.’ I do not even remember talking with him after that—I just remember all the thoughts that raced through my mind.

Why? Why did he feel we have some sort of bond? Was it my pale complexion that led him to believe I am white? Does that make us brothers, friends, acquaintances? I am guessing he felt uncomfortable based on him comment—but why would saying that make things any better? How did that equate in his mind? Did it make him feel safer—ostracizing ourselves from the group of hunger people in line?

And, lastly, was he that surprised? The truth is him and I were not the first middle-class white university students to venture into Kennedy’s for some ridiculously good fried chicken—we.are.in.BINGHAMTON! It’s a white-man’s land as far as anybody is concerned, no matter how many destitute pockets of the city there are. My apartment in two blocks away!

We’re not in the remote village of Fonfuka, Cameroon. Where I would imagine a comment like that, if delivered correctly with the right group of people, could be funny. Or at least deserve a chuckle.

White Politicking in Explicitly Black Spaces-- Cameroon

Here in Cameroon, or almost anywhere else on the continent (depending upon where you are), you would be a bit more hard pressed to even find somebody to say, ‘Looks like we’re the only white dudes in here, huh?’ Every day in almost every town I am the only ‘white’ person around. It’s relatively rare to see other pale skin folks—unless you count Albino people who are actually more plentiful here in Cameroon than in the USA.

First, the dynamics of behind white-on-white interactions here in Cameroon are slightly, and I mean slightly, less ridiculous. Chances are, we are far away from the place we identify as home, the social hierarchies regarding race-relations and class-relations in our immediate surroundings at the moment of the awkward, ‘Hey, where are you from?’ is quite different than when standing in Kennedy’s Fried and there may be a genuine burning curiosity as to what you are doing here. Hell, maybe you can be friends!

There seems to be two camps of reactions when white people see other white people here in Cameroon.

Flockers: The first camp could be described as flocking to those who resemble their skin complexion and/or Western features.  I have been waved to on Commercial Avenue in Bamenda by a group of white people passing me in a Toyota Range-Rover. Why? Not exactly sure other than that white-solidarity that I am not sure I feel here in Cameroon.  (Bamenda= largest city in the Northwest with plenty of Europeans and Americans living and working. Commercial Ave = epicenter of Bamenda—do the math of ridiculousness here).

Oh-No, no NO!’ers: These are folks who will do nearly everything in their powers to ignore the people who share their pale complexion and/or Western ways.

Take a guess which pack I am a apart of? –Well, actually I am a decent mix, depending upon my mood.

My favorite instances have happened in the Main Market of Bamenda. As described in my last blog post—it’s brazen. I’ll find myself in some obscure corner of the market, let’s say looking at saws or something outrageous like that. I will then spot a fellow Pale strolling by. We both see each other—that’s a common fact—but yet we do everything in our powers to make sure neither of us realize we’ve seen each other or plan on seeing each other. HA! Loves it. It becomes more intimate and awesomely awkward when you find yourself in the same store as a person sharing your complexion and you both actively ignore each other in the same manor—not even a head nod. Greatness.

My least favorites seem to involve older White folks. I’ll be in the supermarket—this is the epicenter of seeing older White ex-patriots who tend to be missionaries and tend to make all available efforts in at least greeting you and often summonsing you to some place other than where you are. The last time this occurred I was in the supermarket speaking only Pidgin to the workers, having a few laughs, shopping—you know, being a regular human being. As I pulled up to the line an older woman was finished checking out and greeted me. I cordially responded and exchanged the whole, ‘How’s it going? Where are ya from? Oh, IOWA—interestingggg.’ I suppose what I am trying to say and explain is that when I find myself in these situations I cannot help but to feel some sort of mismatched magnetic force that is trying to pull me in. Let me tell you, there are only a few instances and a few people I could ever want that magnetic feeling—and old missionary ladies are not on the list. Ashia.

If you’re still reading this, pat yourself on the back and know that I owe you a batch of brownies.

As always—miss everybody and love you all so much!

Noo-Ooo, Massa! You sabi a fit talk Pidgin! -- a stroll through Main Market Bamenda.

Abstract:

I’d like to believe my love for Cameroon and my experience thus far has been adequately substantiated articulately relayed through my words on these pages; but in case it has not, this particular blog should help bring you up to speed with my ever growing love for Cameroon—particularly the Northwest.   

Introduction:

My love for Cameroon is joyfully ridiculous. I catch myself smiling at all the amazingness that I am lucky to come across nearly every minute of every day. Like I said in my last post, I truly wish I could teleport my friends and family here to experience at least half of the ridiculousness I venture across in any given day just so that my words can be fully appreciated as I recount these glorious tales.

So I talk Pidgin English. It is phenomenal in so many different and far reaching touching ways. Pidgin is essentially a creole language—it’s a mélange of English (old English at that) and many first people Cameroonian languages (or ‘ethnic’ languages if you will). It’s beautiful, in its own rugged, jaunting and sing-songy kind of way.  I was told its name derived from the idea of messenger pidgins—the idea being that there are upwards of 50 languages in the Northwest region alone and it is this ‘broken’ English (Pidgin) that enables people of different ethnicities with different languages carry their messages to one another. Fine by me, I’m sold! Just as any other language it is a means of communicating, of bringing people together to share and live, to express, to be. It’s perfect.

 Firstly, many people (both PCVs and Cameroonians) have a strong and honest distain for Pidgin. I, without testing my imagination to hard, can understand the reasoning and logic of their paradigm. This camp seems to have a lack of respect for Pidgin which leads me to believe they do not view it as a true language. I am no linguist, but I do know that an overwhelming majority of my native English speaking friends would struggle severely in understanding a conversation that is solely in Pidgin. Also, just to admire its power as a language—a tool that gives us the ability to bridge the many language barriers.

Case Study:

I recently traveled to Bamenda. Bamenda is my ‘banking’ city. It is the regional capital of the Northwest and is a big city that has so much to offer. I am lucky that it is merely 65km South of me on an entirely paved road. I pay a driver 1,500CFA (3 USD), pack myself into a compact car with at least 6 to 7 other adults (or a van with at least 12-14 other adults), sit tight and brave the rollercoaster ride through the mountains only to arrive in a dusty, friendily gritty and bustling city. I went just the other day to attend a meeting of Northwest PCVs—we’re planning a regional project (a summer camp for youth—bound to be fun!).

While in Bamenda I do make sure I bring plenty (meaning all) of my money so I can indulge in the food and other things that the city boasts. The ‘Main Market’ is absolutely amazing. Breathe taking, actually—in so many ways. Breathe taking in the sense that if you’re not prepared, or haven’t been warned, you’re in for a brazen treat that is bound to leave you tired and winded. Breathe taking in the sense that it’s wondrous the amount of goods that move through the market. Breathe taking because it is, amidst the yelling, deranging, ruthless haggling and bustle, quite friendly. It’s an open-air, outdoor market place. The biggest one for hundreds of kilometers—of course it’s serious. It could be seriously intimidating if it’s your first rodeo. Imagine Canal Street in the summertime meeting the Port Authority of the early 90’s but with so many more children. Great? Yes!

i.love. this. market.

Of course I paid a visit there upon arriving into town. I had some business to attend to and I also had an overly ambitious To-Buy list.

 First, a pithy regarding the ‘business’ I had to attend to. I bought a power strip in the market about three weeks before that. I had returned to this shopkeeper named Victous. He is a really friendly feller who I believed to be kind, honest and fair—so I return to him when I need hardware type things. He has been graciously friendly to me.  Three weeks or so ago as I was buying this power strip we exchanged phone numbers. I, somehow, ended up paying him but forgetting my the power strip at his store. I also, conveniently, lost his number so I could not even phone him to let him know I’ll be back for it. So, at this point it’s three weeks later and I’m going back to try to recover my forgotten item—good luck, right? Anywhere else in the world, yes. Here, after you make friends, no luck needed. After we greeted each other for a few minutes, shared some cookies I was eating and chatted about the New Year I mentioned how I forgot to take the power strip. He was actually upset that he allowed me to forget it and quickly grabbed the one I bought and handed it to me. Afterwards he even offered me a small something as a gift for the New Year. Victous is good people. I’m honored to know him.

 So, as I was strolling through the market, glowing slightly because of the fact that the graciousness Victous had showed me and I just purchased some fabric to make blinds for my living room windows at an excellent price of 1000CFA per meter, I had a gentleman begin to walk behind me and ask me what I was looking for and what I was planning to buy. Truth is, I loathe this. I immediately put my guard up slightly and begin firing off to him in Pidgin while I continued walking on my merry way. Now when I speak Pidgin in the market people take notice. Well, people are already taking notice of me when I walk through the market with my ‘African’ market bag and a sense of belonging on my face. But when I begin talking Pidgin—like fast—people really turn their heads. There are a hefty handful of White folks in Bamenda, but only a small few who can actually converse in Pidgin. Yours truly, can.

This man is still persistent. Still behind me—though he is conscious enough to give me some space—he isn’t aggressively following me. So I figured I’d turn and see what he’s getting on about. Come to find he is well acquainted with Sal, a fellow PCV in a neighboring town Njinikom. After learning this we greeted each other properly and began having a few laughs. Not before long I was told I resemble a British soccer player very much—I’ve gotten this three times now, and no, I do not remember his name—and the laughter begins. A few younger guys pull out their cell phones to show me a photo of this bloke. I told the growing crowd of interested shop keepers that I was offended by their words. They assured me it was a good thing. I told them I was much more attractive than this soccer player. They seemed to really like that. It was the deal sealer. After a slew of high-fives and laughs I realized I may as well pull up a chair because we’re having fun. Though this is fun, I've my guard up still because-- well, this is Cameroon, you never really know. 

I was asked if I have a wife by a few women shopkeepers; this is where the laughs really began rolling. Actually, I’ll type it in Pidgin to try to bring you into the scene.

Women shopkeeper (approx 32 yrs old): You done marret?

Me: Noo-oo. A neva marret.

Women: Noo-oo?! You di wait for weti?! You no wan go for marret?!

Me: Noo-ooo! A be na kwakanda!

The women simply look puzzled. I almost get nervous that I’m making things up—but I am sure I am not. As this happens these two men standing by and listening in begin to throw their hands above their heads and stomp their feet. They’re laughing heavy and steady. A few high-fives come my way again and the women remain puzzled. I realize these two women do not know what ‘Kwakanda’ means. Well, I imagine you do not either so… kwakanda is a word describing a single person who is not only single but single and strong. The idea of freedom seems to be implied. But strong is certainly at the forefront of its meaning. I was nearly confused—I am often told I ‘talk Pidgin like a priest’ because the Pidigin I speak is a bit dated and proper. But the idea that I know this word and these women do not still confused me. But, at adhere to cultural norms I continued to joke with these women. I asked them where they are from and they told me Bamenda—obviously. The men continue their hardy laugh. I then tell the women I think I can talk Pidgin better than them. They were about to begin laughing when the men explained to them what kwakanda means. Then they really laughed.

All of this in Pidgin. As we say in the Northwest, ‘WON-DA-FUL!’ (Wonderful!).  

At one point during this comedy hour a police man shows up to the party. He seemed to have been drinking because I could smell the 25 cent whiskey on his breath. We talked for a brief moment basically because he summonsed me over to him but he wasn't really jolly like everybody else. When I approached him and began talking his demeanor didn't change--ill regard of my light joking tone and the fun atmosphere we all created. I notice Benjamin still hasn't left my side. After a few minutes as it became evident my conversation with the police man was not going any where productive Benjamin managed to dissolve it and pull me away from him, thankfully, as to avoid any problems. This is when I realized I've found a friend. 

After this and lots more talking and joking we got back to business—buying things. I had plans to buy another market bag. The prices depend on the size. I know the prices quite well—some weeks before I spent an exuberant amount of time working on a man to adjust his price—in the same aisle, actually. When I told them I wanted to buy a’Ghana-must-go’ bag (market bag in Cameroonian slang), after the laughter settled they pointed me to a teenage boy who had a few to sell. Now the entire aisle of shopkeepers knows very well I can hold my own in Pidgin—but they do not realize to what extent I am ‘bien integrate’ (well integrated). I ask the boy how much he is selling the bag for. He comes at me quick with 1.5 (1500CFA). I immediately exlaim, ‘Ma-mammi-oooooo!’—indicating I know he’s trying to pull something on me. Truthfully, 1.5 is not an outrageously high price. If I were in Fundong, the bag would be at least 1.2 and more likely towards 1.5. Luckily, we’re in Bamenda. I told him, very loudly, that I do not pay White man prices—to which the shopkeepers erupted into laughter again, of course. Few more high fives and cries later, the boy wasn’t terribly embarrassed at this point but he seemed to enjoy it, my new friend, Benjamin, asked me ‘You di get how much?’ meaning how much am I willing to pay? I looked up at the bag, back down to the boy and told them—‘I get 800.’ I heard a few ‘wooo!’s’ from the bystanders and watched as both the boys head and Benjamin’s head tilted slightly and chin ducked down towards their shoulder as they began to move towards getting the bag down for me. This is the sign of defeat. This is the tell-tale moment where you know you’ve found your bottom price in the market. It’s a look of near defeat but with a smile because everybody knows everybody is happy. I get a good price, the shopkeepers make some money and we’re, by and by, all happy. I receive a side hug from Benjamin as he laughs and points to the boy, ‘Move it so, you no fit fool this massa yi get sense, yi be na professional.’ Gratifying? You have no idea.

 Push come to shove I now have plenty of friends in the second aisle of the Bamenda Main Market. Benjamin, the man who began this whole leg slapping ordeal, and I exchanged numbers and will most certainly be bumping into one another sooner or later.

This does not even suffice to describe the wonderfulness of the past two days, but it’s well past my bed time so those glory stories will have to wait until tomorrow.

Goodnight-o!!!