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!!!