kar0ling

At the evening of the choir competition, I was surprised by how strongly a solo rendition of “Just as I am” resonated with me in the midst of the other Cameroonian selections I heard that night. Most of the other offerings were, if not in English, in Pidgin at least, so it’s not as though this hymn was the first thing I understood all evening. I’ve never had a particular love for that hymn (nor particular dislike, either) so I was surprised by the emotion it evoked for me. I really want to appreciate the Cameroonian style of music and I thought I was, so this was a surprise. The reverse effect surprised me on Sunday. Having attended the Presbyterian church in Bekondo in the morning to hear Joe’s first service there as an ordained minister, I was listening to some worship music on my Walkman in the afternoon and was struck by the drums. Perhaps it was in part the quality of my player, but the sound of the North American drums sounded so harsh and plain after the booming, rhythmic, “poly...

“Kenneth, get the cat. There’s a gecko here in the schoolroom doorway,” calls Becky. “Can I see?!?!” Kenneth and Laura both come running, lunch forgotten — sans cat. Finally, cat rounded up and all kids gathered to watch, the lizard is dispatched, leaving his tail to convulse and flail about on the ground like a chicken with its head cut off, only in reverse. “Just a bit of clean family entertainment,” says Becky with a rueful smile and a roll of her eyes.

We were naughty and skipped the Christmas Eve service. It started late in the evening when all the kids should have been going to bed, and… well,…, um… we went to the service the next morning. First of all, there was Sunday School. Sunday School is a whole topic all of its own, so suffice it to say I found it strange to have Sunday School on Christmas morning seeing as how it’s not Sunday. It did start an hour later than the usual time. All the kids were decked out in their Christmas finery. My Cameroonian friend Judith said it is all important to get a new dress at Christmas. People may or may not know the holiday is about Jesus’ birthday, but everyone knows you get a new dress at Christmastime. This was in evidence in church Christmas morning as the crowd of kids was much larger than normal and everyone was looking freshly scrubbed, fully clothed, and neatly pressed with no rips or stains. Church was packed out for the first time in a long time. One of the draws of the Christmas day ...

I do not understand how there can be no change in this country. One is constantly on a quest for change, and always carefully apportioning out what coins and small bills one has so there will be some when you really need it. What confounds me is if you’ve been selling your little packets of groundnuts, or your oranges, or papayas, or whatever, all day for 100 francs a piece, how can you possibly not have change to break my 500 bill? In the market, if you press them to take your big bill, insisting you have no change, someone will run away with your money to confer with all his friends, returning some minutes later having found someone who has change. But the one that really made me shake my head was when it took over 24 hours for our hotel to come up with change for our payment for three nights. What do people do with all these small bills and coins and why does the bank only make huge bills available if they're nearly impossible to use?

As we drove into Kumba on our return from Limbe, there was a dead body lying on the road covered up with a few banana leaves weighed down with rocks. Kara’s parents said the body was there when they left that morning, but it was naked and in the middle of the road. We shook our heads and tsk-tsk’d about the sadness (not to mention the smell) of leaving a body to lie out in the open like that for such a span of time, undealt with, and in such a climate. When we reached the Lutheran compound and told the Cameroonian worker there about it, he said it was a thief who got caught and felt the wrath of a mob. Occupational hazard, he suggested with a shrug. The next day, another Cameroonian said she had the goods on it from her daughter’s friend who was there when it happened. The man had fathered a child but the girl’s parents were incensed and wouldn’t allow him to see the child. They speculate he tried to see the girl and/or the baby and suffered for it. “He had a hole in his back,” she sai...

According to one of the guidebooks, Limbe is one of the centres of English resistance in Cameroon, Bamenda being the other. Cameroon is kind of like Canada in reverse, official-language-wise. Both French and English are official languages, but English is only spoken in North West and South West Province—the rest of the country speaks French. Given the earlier statement, I was awfully surprised to spend most of our mini-holiday on the beach doing the talking because everyone we encountered spoke French—some exclusively. So if Limbe is a stronghold for English-speaking Cameroon, well, I think they’re losing.

Where are you hiding, Mount Cameroon? It’s the largest mountain in West Africa, the eighth largest on the continent of Africa, rising to 4,095 metres. And it’s right here…somewhere. I know it lies between Limbe and Kumba. While we were in Limbe, I kept looking at the hills opposite the ocean, thinking, “Surely it’s got to be right there!” but there was nothing but cloud and haze. No luck as we drove past Buea, which lies at the foot of the mountain, and is the stepping off point for the Race of Hope, a day-long marathon run up the mountain. Even from Big Bekondo it should be possible to see the mountain as it’s not that far away, but there has only been one day so far that it has been visible. I had hopes to see it up close in Limbe, but I guess better luck next time.

I ate a fish, on the beach. Just a slab of fish on a plate. It was great. It was grilled, of course, and slathered with a delicious sauce. And I was going to say I ate all of it, but that wouldn’t be true either. Lerry (Cameroonian girl) looked at me strangely a few nights earlier when I was eating bar (a kind of fish) with rice and dodo (fried sweet plantains, mmmm) at Hot Spot, and asked “Why don’t you eat the bones?” Ummm, because a) I’m a wimp, and b) I’m Canadian, so it’s not really standard practice anyway? This is a big step for me to just be eating fish like this, all fishy looking and all. But it was really good, especially at dusk on the beachfront at Limbe. We went up to the crude grill, picked out our fish from the selections given, then they were thrown on the grill and served up to us with a roasted plantain (mmmmm!) later. I tried to be more responsible this time and eat at least some of the bones, but only some. And I couldn’t bring myself to eat the head; I’m sorry, bu...

It's a bit belated to be describing this now, I suppose, but time has flown since our return from "Baka-land" and the scrap of paper on which I jotted notes as we drove had disappeared from sight and from mind. Nevertheless, here's my description of the region we passed through -- in condensed form (my description, that is, not the region). Brown trees: It only takes a short while without rain before things become coated with dust, and the trees close to the unpaved roads are the first to evidence. Coated with rust-coloured dust from the red clay, they are a startling change from the lush greenery beyond. Cows with horns: We saw whole flocks of them, once were slowed by a herd crossing the road, and I thought, "cows, how lovely, I haven't seen those in ages." Of course, a short while later, I saw a small herd in Kumba. But I hang on to the impression made by those long, curled-horn cows on the road to Dimoko. Toucan: Wait, was it my imagination, or was t...

Closing my eyes against the glare of the beating hot sun as I was hanging laundry on the line outside, I heard a distant radio pumping out Christmas carols. "Pfft," I thought with an incredulous shake of my head, "it's Christmastime!" Who woulda thunk it?

Left-handed shifting, now that's a skill! Driving standard and eating at the same time needn't be mutually exclusive activities when you're travelling with a talented and gracious spouse who can shift for you. The most impressive part of this manoeuvre was the fact that no words were spoken: with telepathic ease, Becky shifted at just the right moment with nary a cue from Mike (well, other than putting in the clutch, but that's a fairly subtle movement). I was impressed -- talk about two becoming one flesh.

The high incidence of money talk here is surprising to me, given the scarcity of either hard cash or savings accounts. Not that no one has money here, but living a basically subsistence existence off a jungle farm with only one major crash crop a year means you never have a whole lot of cash -- either on paper or in hand. We're currently entering the season of money here in Bekondo, when the cocoa crop is mostly harvested, dried and sold to buyers. Christmas is party time, not because of Christ but because of cash. It's a lively time for parties, running a generator to power lights and music, trucking in drinks to flow with goodwill. It's the time when schools put their foot down and demand tuition fees be paid or students leave. It's a time of increased crime because people are travelling to visit family and money is around. Taxis double and triple in price -- because they can -- until December 25th, after which the frenzy abruptly stops and prices return to normal (so...

I was a fairly fanatical re-user in Canada. I fear I'll be even worse after being in Cameroon where any sort of receptacle is re-used again and again until entirely kaput, and clothes worn until they're beyond mending at which point they're turned into rags. Will I be able to throw anything out ever again? We'll see; I'm sure friends and family will encourage my cultural adjustment in this area. But here's one idea I'll tuck into my back pocket and take with me-- for it's humour value, if nothing else. I don't know if this is a widely used trick, but I learned from a World Teamer in East Cameroon with the Baka (pygmies) that a flipflop can have a second life as a torch. Apparently these flimsy plastic shoes burn interminably once lit. "So I now carry a broken shoe in my truck in case I ever need a flare or flashlight or firestarter," he joked. We alternately chuckled and shuddered as the possibilities this revelation opened up, imagining th...

The fact that literate Oroko people think they need to be taught how to read Oroko flabbergasted me. Yes, the alphabet contains 4 non-standard characters*, but otherwise it's the same alphabet as used for English. It's marvellously phonetic; as a non-Oroko speaker, I have no difficulty reading it. They understand what it says -- what can possibly be so hard that they need lessons? "They don't learn phonics here," Becky explains. Oh. Okay, yeah, that would make things much more difficult. I understand now. She continues, "Even if they did.." Gasp! I see: I'm not saying it's wrong, but even the most well-spoken Cameroonian's English is decidedly *non-standard* by North American standards. Given the many exceptions already existing in English spelling, I can see how trying to teach phonics with such non-standard pronunciation would be very difficult. So I must no longer give strange looks when I hear of Oroko people claiming they need to be taug...

I have been dreading the Christmas season since first coming out here but now that it has arrived, it's not bad at all. It was nearly half over by the time I realized it was upon us. I came home from 24 hours in Kumba to find both Friesen and Scott residences had blossomed with decorations in my absence. (Traditionally, it's my role to help my mom decorate on the first Sunday of Advent, so I feared being involved in someone else's Christmas-making ceremony would bring on homesickness.) Initially I reasoned: I fully acknowledge that the traditions we celebrate at Christmas are just that -- traditions, and fairly syncretistic ones at that -- so I don't really want to celebrate Christmas at all here, missing so many of the important elements of celebration, beloved family and friends being key, though frankly snow plays a large role, too. I figured -- I'm in Cameroon; I should celebrate Cameroonian style. The first change in my attitude came from an encouragement from ...

A typical outdoor Advent-season activity for children: making tunnels. Kenneth declared at supper today that he'd spent the afternoon outside with his friends making tunnels -- in the grass. Given that the grass is a good 5 feet tall, the activity is remarkably reminiscent of playing in a snowbank. It never fails to surprise me how kids here manage to do the same things as kids in North America, despite the lack of snow.

What I learned in Kumba this weekend: the back of a motorbike provides a much smoother ride. Only in town, I hasten to add. The pavement in Kumba is far from smooth but the big holes are easily enough avoided when you're dealing with two small tires in a row. (How bad are these streets, you ask? Walking from the Lutheran church in Tancha to catch an okada in Fiango, the Cameroonian told the two North Americans -- who were hugging the sides of the road -- to come walk with him. "Why are we walking in the middle of the road?" I asked my friend. "Because the potholes are worst in the middle so the cars stay on the edges." In fairness, that stretch is outside of town and is unpaved. The holes in town are fewer but deeper.) I quite enjoyed my first okada (motorcycle taxi) ride. It was great fun jetting through town cosied up to the driver, weaving through traffic and dodging the ubiquitous holes. These little bikes have not even the barest suggestion of a windshield,...

Cameroon being one of the world’s most corrupt countries, Kara and I were a bit hesitant to comply when the gendarme (police officer) hailed us from across the road and beckoned us over. There were two lady gendarmes on the porch of the station, quite close to the Kumba penitentiary, and two men inside resting or doing paperwork. But to our relief, truly all they wanted was to talk. (Given some of the random people we’d met on our walk to Lake Barombi and their requests, this was one we were quite willing to acquiesce to.) After a brief sit-down chat – half in French since the ladies both came from the French-speaking part of the country – we made our excuses and said our goodbyes. The ladies had been curious where we were from, how we liked the food in Cameroon, how we found the weather; commented on how they’d seen Kara walking for exercise (good, they asserted), and expressed concern over whether we’d burn in the hot sun. They invited us to stop by again to talk any time. I guess...

Green. Gorgeous. Growing. Gigantic. These are adjectives pressed upon me trooping through the rainforest. Manfred, Friesens' househelp, was cutting down "a stick" on his farm and he invited us to come along to see it turned into lumber. It had poured in the morning and we left later in the afternoon than may be wise for trekking out to the bush (3:45ish), but having no guarantee of a better circumstance another day, we went anyway. We took the main path into the bush leading past Scotts' place then disappeared on a lesser path not far into the elephant grass. Like the roads, the paths are so unobtrusive I hardly see them until a local turns down one. We trotted along the gentle up-and-down path through cocoa, cassava, and groundnut farms with a scattering of banana and plantain trees. I marvelled at the scenery when possible, but sadly, mostly focussed on my feet to keep from stumbling. Ooops, tree root -- strike that last part about not falling. Suddenly Manfred step...

Rainy season is supposed to be over, and with it the impassable roads. Mind you, dry season doesn't mean good roads, it means less-bad roads. But it's been raining more often than normal, and we had a hearty rain before Dan and I left Kumba on Saturday evening. To make matters more exciting, it was just before dark. But Dan likes to sleep in his own bed, trusts his truck, and doesn't mind a bit of adventure. And we were giving a ride to two Oroko men. It's a mutually beneficial relationship -- they get a free ride home and are around to help dig if we get stuck and provide some insurance against getting hassled by gendarmes, bandits, or unscrupulous locals. The infamous hole in Kake was the first obstacle. We noticed on our way out of Kumba that fortunately most of the big trucks had taken a pass on trying to get through that night and were pulled over on the side of the road. So it wasn't a big truck stuck in the Kake hole that was forcing cars to scale the steep ...

Playing a round of “Catch-phrase”—a game like Taboo but played hot potato-style—with three missionary couples, Mike needs to elicit the word “government.” “In Cameroon, it is corrupt,” he immediately offers. “Government!” everyone chimes, without pause to think.

You hear about mosquitoes & malaria in African and how it's a problem, how you need to take drugs so as not to catch it and die. It is -- no denying it -- a very real issue, but as to the mosquitoes themselves... well, coming from a Manitoba summer, I was surprised to find there were virtually NO mosquitoes, and the few I saw were so sluggish you could pluck them from the air with one hand. Here I'd steeled myself for a year of constant itching. Actually, it has, in fact, been 4 months of constant itching so far, but that's on account of the moot-moots and other insect life, not mosquitoes. In Douala, however, they have mosquitoes -- buzzing around inside, outside, in the car -- and I've experienced their bite. Even better, I'm told the Douala mosquitoes have a particularly potent strain of malaria. (So, if I fall ill about two weekends from now, we'll know what the problem is. True to form, it would be at just the right time: around the start of translation...

One observes both laziness and great entrepreneurial spirit in Cameroon – and everything in between, as well – but I think those first two extremes are more apparent here than in North America. Sometimes the entrepreneurial spirit lacks common sense. Then again, maybe it’s just my warped North American mind that’s the problem, and their methods work fabulously for Cameroon; I don’t know. However, I do wonder at the practicality of attempting to sell an iron (for pressing clothing) off one’s head from the sidewalk of a major street, just past an intersection. If you’re making your way from one end of town to another, or from the airport to your accommodation, or downtown for a big event or business meeting, are you really going to stop the car on this busy stretch to get out to buy a wall clock or an iron? “Wait, taxi, stop! Back up to that guy there; I want to buy an iron. Yes! Just what I’ve been looking for!” Somehow, I just can’t picture it. The things they sell off their backs, the...

It’s so interesting being in Douala again—the first time since my stay when I’d just arrived in Cameroon. Everything looks the same…only SOOOO different. When I’d just arrived, I was trying to take everything in, trying to make sense of all these impressions, and trying to wrap my brain around just what “Cameroon” is. I didn’t get how these dusty, pot-holed roads past dingy one-story buildings could be part of the most bustling, industrial city in Cameroon. I didn’t understand exactly where the people lived. I wasn’t sure whether to think the street where we visited a restaurant, bank and small groceries store was typical or extraordinary. Now, everything looks so impressive, so modern. Such conveniences here! The guesthouse, which on my arrival, seemed like what a nice little rural retreat centre or summer camp would be like in North America, now seems to reach such a high standard of comfort and technology. The streets of Douala are so well paved, and those few multistory buildings a...

More to come on this rainforest trek, but here's the photo, in case you don't believe me.

That epithet exists for a reason. One of the other World Team missionary families has a monkey, Kemmie (an approximation of the Baka word for monkey) who embodies all the mischief, cuteness, inquisitiveness and agility you’d expect from that phrase.

Looking at the vehicles as you walk around the SIL compound in Yaoundé, you might think the place is sponsored by Toyota. Nearly every vehicle on the compound is a Toyota of some shape or form—most of them white, to boot. The visiting bush missionaries (like us) and the consultants who live in Yaoundé but travel regularly to the villages drive all manner of Toyota SUVs; the hostels for the MKs attending RFIS (boarding school) have 15-passenger vans/mini-buses. Even the cars are, by and large, Toyotas. In the wider context, Toyotas are also prevalent. All taxis are yellow Toyotas and pretty much any vehicle that makes it into Bekondo during rainy season is a Toyota Hilux (or Mike’s Land Cruiser). In Yaoundé, you also see plenty of Mercedes, Peugeots, and Renaults. In general, you see lots of Asian imports: a smattering of Mitsubishis, Isuzus, Nissans, but surprisingly, no Hondas. I even saw 3 Fords today, to my utter amazement, but no Hondas. Land Rovers—supposedly the ubiquitous Africa...

At a special session on Sabbath rest at SIL’s CTC (Cameroon Training Centre) in Yaounde, one missionary said the English service is like water to her soul when she comes in after months in the village. It offers rest, rejuvenation, and a time of corporate worship—which church in the village doesn’t. It touches her heart. That’s the irony of our work, pipes up another translator. The better a job we’re doing, the less at home we’ll feel. We’re out there translating the Bible into these tribal languages so their speakers can have this kind of meaningful and immediate worship. So, the more our work helps the villagers worship in their native idiom, the less “at home” we’ll feel.

“Look, everybody! Here come the tunnels!” I really shouldn’t snicker at the kids calling a couple of overpasses in Douala “tunnels” -- after all, this prairie girl has caught herself calling the TransCanada overpass on Hwy 59 a “hill.”

Sunrise shortly before six. Sunset shortly after six. Every day. Advantages: Your circadian rhythm can really get some perpetual motion happening--if you coordinate waking hours with sunlit hours you’ll get lots of sleep. I marvel at regular class hours at high school starting at 7:30; most university students I know thought the “early” 8:30 class started at an ungodly hour. Disadvantages: Electricity interferes with these good intentions. We can extend our evenings long after the sun has gone done, thus we’re not quite so eager to be up with dawn’s early light. Simon, Scotts’ yardworker, thinks 5:30 is a marvellous time to get work done: sharpening his cutlass and cutting grass outside my window, or pounding the new clothesline posts into the ground. I am less than impressed. But, in the end, no doubt he’s the one getting more sleep and enjoying the fresh air before it gets too hot. It’s an accomplishment for me that I’m up for breakfast at 7:00 every morning.

Banana plantations, cocoa farms, rubber plantations. You see them everywhere in Cameroon. Bananas, mangoes, citrus (oranges, grapefruit, pomelo—which, to my surprise, is called “shaddock” in Encarta), avocadoes, pineapples. We eat a plethora of them in season. All these tropical plants we find so normal; none are native to Africa, much less Cameroon. Banana – South East Asia; mango – India; cocoa – South America; pineapple – mostly tropical America; citrus – South East Asia, rubber – South America. What did Cameroonians farm before these? What did they eat without these? Oroko doesn’t even have a word for orange, grapefruit, or lime—it calls them all “bangnasari” (itself probably a borrowed word from another language), meaning “citrus”—because the plants aren’t native to the area. Since introduction, however, some of these plants have worked their way to becoming essential to a Cameroonian’s life. Plantain (relative of banana) is a staple food for villagers, villagers whose cash crop i...

I surprise myself by how happy I am to see city lights and hear traffic. Not to say that I don’t enjoy the quiet of village life but I am equally able to appreciate the hustle and bustle of a city. Mostly I have seen but a tiny corner of Yaoundé. RainForest International School (close to where I’m staying) used to be at the edge of the city, but now buildings have grown up on all sides of it. Nevertheless, the area is not densely populated: in every direction I look, pockets of green separate the rooftops. There are even small cornfields between houses. The Yaounde I’ve seen seems relaxed, sprawling and affluent—only the second, no doubt, is true for all of town. I have no illusions that we’re in an ordinary part of town here. The houses, according to the standard of the village, or even what I’ve seen of Kumba, are palatial. It’s wonderful to see multi-story buildings again, showing an attempt at architecture. (Most buildings in the villages, even in Kumba and Bamenda, exist to be bui...

Comprehensibility is not the greatest goal in communication; status is. Complicating the issue further, Cameroon is an officially bilingual country: French and English. French is the dominant language with only 2 of the 10 provinces speaking English. Bilingualism in Cameroon is much like bilingualism in Canada—it exists mostly on paper. The French areas speak French while the English areas speak (mostly pidgin) English and even the culture of the two areas differs. Big Bekondo is in the English-speaking part of the country so I was surprised by how often I’d be greeted in the village with a French “bon soir.” When I asked Lisa if people spoke French here she said no. People like to use that greeting on white people because it connotes status; it makes them look educated. Next in rank is English; that is, “grammar” English; proper English as taught in school. Even this strikes my ear as quaint at best, poor at worst. They never use contractions, the stress patterns are different, (besid...

How could I forget to mention the culverts? The rigors of the road are becoming old-hat to me; that, and with less rain it’s becoming more easily navigable, so I may not have any more observations to make on adventures of the Bekondo road. But, there are still the culverts to describe. It’s a wet place, this rainforest is, so no one will be surprised that the occasional culvert is necessary to direct a stream underneath the road instead of across it. Only no attempt whatsoever has been made to bury the culvert. More accurately, the road goes over the stream rather than the stream under the road. You’ll be chugging along the severely rutted but otherwise relatively flat road, when suddenly a culvert rears its head. You screech to a crawl (from your lightning speed of some 20 km/h) to scale the 1.5ish metre-high obstacle. Besides not burying the culvert, they haven’t even graded it to the road. The gradient on both sides of the hump is practically vertical. Fortunately, there’s only two ...

By car. I look on cars here with incredulity, unable to comprehend how they can get people from point A to point B. Well, I guess they don’t necessarily: Dan drove us from Big Bekondo to Kumba, but from there Elsie and I hitched a ride to Yaoundé with the SIL translation consultants in their car. The most noteworthy part of the first leg was the mudhole by Kake. With no apparent trigger factors, there was an enormous hole in the road—the tracks led down into a muddy depression two humps long—then the road continued merrily on its way. At the bottom of this hole, the mud came up to the windows—on Dan’s jacked up 4X4 Toyota Hilux. Persistent washboard and plentiful potholes plagued the road from Kumba till closer to Douala when suddenly all was paved and wonderful, though the first section of paved road was spotted with enormous speed bumps that seemed to occur every 100 metres. I’d size up Urs, the driver, as a European practiced in Cameroonian driving. He was a speed demon wherever the...

Once again translation week and a "Friesen week" have coincided for me so I get to eat "country chop" with the translators at lunch. We hadn't had waterfufu yet this week, so I was expecting--but dreading--that for lunch on Wednesday. Before leaving for lunch I thought to myself, I dearly wish lunch would be plaintains or something. Imagine my delight when it was indeed boiled plaintains with a red sauce and cabbage. A healthy fire burned in my mouth from the first bite and I avoided scooping out any meat with the cabbage but otherwise the meal was excellent. Today Lisa and I were sharing our dread of waterfufu and our earnest wish that we would not have to eat it today. Finally, the ladies brought the food and our suspense was ended as one of the translators lifted the lid and exclaimed in consternation: "we had this yesterday!" (Actually he said it in Oroko, but that's a paraphrase of my understanding of what he said.) Lisa and I looked at each o...

One of the few fruit trees along main street in the village, the shadok* tree spreads its branches widely above the mud. Not a very tall tree, its long arms, weighed down by the enormous orbs hanging like oversized Christmas decorations on an Charlie Brown tree, need to be propped up with sticks to keep them from breaking under the weight of the slowly ripening shadok. The unique (and gigantic) citrus has slowly been finding its way to our table. (*Shadok is the word used for pomelo in this area. It is not widely known or used. It seems to be a pidgin word, though what its origins are, no one can tell.)

The million tiny stars were so high in the vast dome of the sky, while just above the horizon, beyond the dark silhouettes of palm trees and the verdant hill overlooking the edge of town, behind and between the puffy cumulus clouds flashed pink, yellow and orange lightning. In the dark African night, the colours of sunset peeked out from behind the pillows of the sky. Another evening, the flashes were so white and so complete that they lit the landscape as though it were day. They stayed longer than an instant-enough to hold in your hand, yet not enough to hold on to. Just when I thought I could see everything and could turn off my flashlight . it was dark again.

The team here is binational: One half of each couple is Canadian while the other is American. As a result, instead of celebrating Thanksgiving twice, it more often happens that Thanksgiving is neglected altogether. This year, Canadian Thanksgiving was upon us before we noticed it and American Thanksgiving looks to be a busy time, so we arbitrarily selected a date in between and to ensure we celebrated it. Wednesday, November 7, 2007 was the day. Our feast consisted of chicken pieces, mashed potatoes, homemade stuffing, a lettuce salad, and mango pie (hey, the colour is right) for dessert. All the elements of the traditional meal were there, just not exactly the way we're used to them. Both families ate together for the noon meal; the kids in the kitchen at the supper table while the adults ate on the coffee table in the living room. One of the girls was running a high fever, so the rest of us--who'd been dragging with sniffles and cold all week--were thankful we weren't sic...

The 7 Baptist churches of Mbonge North Association came to Big Bekondo for Mini Bible Conference, October 26-28. "Cameroonian Time" According to the schedule, the conference started sometime on Friday. The sound system made some noise that day but I don't think much happened till Saturday when Becky and I attended the morning session. The teaching session was supposed to start at 9, the message be given around 10:30, followed by greetings, and choir numbers ending just before lunch at 12:00. We arrived after 10--the session hadn't started yet. I snuck out after the sermon (around 1:30), wolfed down some lunch before bringing the girls back to sing our "English choir" numbers shortly before the congregation adjourned for lunch break just after 2. The afternoon session-rescheduled to start at 3 instead of 2 as the program dictated-started a good hour late and ended later. Interestingly, there was a designated "time-keeper" for the conference. I don...

In Canada, if internet service is down for a few hours, people get antsy. In Cameroon, we're a bit more phlegmatic about things. Here in the village, we don't have internet at all-we send email through the radio to Yaounde where another missionary converts it to internet-if he's not home, or if there's any kind of glitch in the system, we simply go without. So we weren't overly concerned when a few days went by without email (though we were feeling the loss of contact with the outside world, email being one of our only media). Then Dan and Mike returned from a weekend of meetings in Kumba with news that internet is out everywhere.or so they say. People were reporting internet was out over the entire country. One report was that a fibre optics cable had been cut in Douala. Elsie, coming to visit us from Bamenda reported some places in NorthWest had it, others did not. We're not sure what the real story was, but if you're reading this, it's back up and run...

The day had been sunny and warm. The thermometre in the schoolroom measured above 30 C, though I found it difficult to believe it was that warm. Some convincing thunder was beginning to rumble around suppertime, so to be on the safe side, though feeling slightly foolish as I passed some villagers, I wore rubber boots and brought my umbrella along with my flashlight as I went over to Friesens' for supper. Better safe than sorry--after all, it would certainly rain before I returned home and the boots would ensure that I wouldn't arrive home at Scotts' with 10 pounds of mud on each flipflop. It did, in fact, rain off and on all evening. After a nice peaceful interlude, the deluge began again as we neared the end of our Triple Yahtzee game. I needed to get back before too late, so trusting in my preparations, I braved the rain. The first surprise was the small river previously known as the path. The boots kept my feet dry, but a few steps in I realized my skirt was skimming the...

No, not homebrew, though I should write about that someday as well. Literally moon shine. At least, I think that's what it was. At any rate, it was so bright the other night, the house cast a shadow. Light gleamed off the leaves of the banana trees, and well after the usual hour of darkness it was still bright enough to see clearly. The white-tiled tomb outside my window shone a pale bluish light and I hated to turn away from the beautiful night. Having experienced the utter darkness of a moonless African light sans electricity, I have now also seen a brightness to rival a Canadian winter's night by a snow-covered field.

At the baptism down by the stream, I suddenly felt something wet and cool on my foot. Assuming it was a clod of dirt or wet dead leaf that had fallen on my foot, I gasped when a glance down revealed it was a frog! I jerked my foot violently and watched, rather perturbed, as the frog phlegmatically hopped away. Ugh! At least it wasn't in my bathroom again.

A walk through the village is not complete without little children screaming "WHITE MAN! WHITE MAN!" until I wave and call hello. The novelty wears off pretty quickly, and I get downright irritated when the "greeting" comes from adults. In my less tolerant moments, I stubbornly resist the callers, pleading semantics as my excuse: I'm not a *man* thank you very much! But when I can put a smile on the kids faces by waving and saying hi, it's nice to oblige. Most kids are either thrilled or unconcerned by my white skin, but there's the occasional one who bursts into tears of terror. It's reassuring, I suppose, to provide such amusement for children simply by existing. On the other hand, it's terribly depressing to frighten them by the same token.

Yes, there was a reason I hadn't gone on my own to take a walk in the village before now. I've run back and forth between Friesens' and Scotts' countless times by myself, but never wandered much further on my own. But Saturdays, being less structured, stretch into long days in which I begin to obsess over the things I did I home, the things I hope to do at home, the people I left at home, and, generally, a wish that I might soon be at home. To dispel these foolish thoughts, I decided to take walk. Getting out of the house always reminds me that I'm in Cameroon--and that's exciting! I chose to come here; I can't go home until I've experienced this place and its people, and hopefully left some kind of imprint (however small) myself. Well, I experienced its people. I took Christie with me to water the cuttings planted at the church work day earlier in the week, then sent her home as I wandered off by myself to the primary school yard a ways further. Doors w...

I don't know why I'm surprised that this is turning into a series. I suppose I ought to be grateful it took two months in the village to encounter my first cockroach in the bathroom. And I ought to be grateful that he was small, and rather stupid, preferring to scurry along the wall and to dart across the room where he was handily dispatched, rather than running behind the rattan shelf where I was unwilling to chase after him. Yes, I am grateful. It's just..he's only the first, isn't he?

We have a love-hate relationship, moot-moots and me. They love me; I hate them. The irritating thing about them is that you can neither see them nor feel them bite, so by the time you realize they've eaten you alive it's far too late to do anything about it. I don't know whether it's due to incomplete repellent application, ineffective repellent, the result of rain washing away the repellent, or the fact that moot-moots are completely taken in by my fresh blood, but they feast on me. I counted at least 35 pink spots upon returning from a morning cocoa breaking. The mosquitoes so far are a non-issue. Coming from Manitoba, I scoff at the one or two sluggish mosquitoes I've seen lazily buzzing around. The mosquitoes I know do not allow you to snatch them out of the air one-handed to kill them. But, given that mosquitoes here carry deadly diseases whereas the ones at home merely make you itch, I guess I should be only to grateful they are so wimpy.

Now that Friesens are back, I eat my meals with them one week, Scotts the next. Translation week this month was a Friesen week for me, so I lunched with the translators: local food made by local cooks for local consumption. (When Friesens' and Scotts' cooks make local stuff they modify it for Western palettes. Primarily, this means less oil and less pepe.) Gearing me up for the experience, I ate rice and fish in sauce at Joe's house (one of the indigenous translators) for lunch on Sunday and partook of a sumptuous spread at Chief Esoh's house for supper that evening, including a small piece of "bushmeat" which apparently was porcupine. I'm neither much of a connoisseur nor much of a fan of meat in general, so as far as I'm concerned, one fatty chunk of meat is the same as the next. Monday -- Pepe soup The national dish of Cameroon, or at least, of this region. Pepe is the local hot pepper used to spice everything. It was a thickish soup, a murky greyis...

"Wanna go for a ride?" Dan invited me Sunday morning while I was eating breakfast with the Scotts. A few days before, he'd mentioned his intention to go somewhere and the possibility I might come along but I didn't have any details. However, not one to turn down a chance to see something new (not to mention an opportunity to skip out of a torturous "English Choir" performance once again), I grabbed my boots, umbrella, and packed my overnight bag-it's best to be prepared. Bekondo road wasn't bad at all; and by "not bad" I mean we only almost got stuck once or twice but never had to dig. Then, in the town where the road starts to get better--the place where Mike usually installs or removes the snowchains--instead of continuing straight to Kumba, we turned right and headed for new country (for me, anyway). Here we enjoyed some good old pothole-y roads, just like I'm used to. Well, maybe not like I'm used to. At its best, it's still...

Tiny little spider running back and forth across my glasses. Just a little black dot, darting to and fro, an inch from my face as I stand in front of the church, singing with the "English choir," helpless to do anything about it. (Yes, with the exception of this sentence, this entry consists entirely of sentence fragments.)

Rain like you wouldn't believe. Granted, the noise of the aluminium roof increases the perceived severity of the storm, but there is no denying the force of the deluge. It was dark and loud inside at the middle of the day when it started pouring, so there wasn't much point in doing anything but going out to watch it come down on a Saturday afternoon. "20th October, 2007: rain." That's what Levi, one of indigenous translators said with a smile as I stood on Friesens' porch watching it pour. Within minutes the path (read: Main Street) was a fast-flowing river. An empty plastic water jug carried on the current sailed past my eyes. The empty stockpot Lisa placed outside to catch rainwater for the water filter filled up in 4 minutes flat. Naked kids streaked toward the improvised soccer pitch at the clearing. Mudsoccer is a favourite. Between the soaking from the sky and the splashing from the ground, there's really not much point in clothing. Thunder sounded n...

When is thunder not thunder? the girls queried in puzzlement when, after hearing a rumble, I reminded myself that it would, of course, be thunder. When it's a big truck rumbling over a bridge or roadway. When it's someone in the apartment upstairs moving furniture. When it's a radio blasting with thumping bass, or a movie soundtrack turned up high so the dialogue is audible. When it's a faraway train. When it's a plane overhead. When it's a loaded dolly rolling over a tiled floor. I'm sure you could add to my list. None of these options really exist here. Unlike at home, where there are many candidates for noisemaking, here, if I hear a boom or distant rumble, odds are, it's thunder.

"Bow." As in, the weapon. Bow and arrow. Problem, you ask? Indeedy: there's a fair bit of bow use in the Old Testament but it turns out the Oroko have no word for it. Here in the rainforest, it seems, spears sufficed for the ancestors' hunting needs. I guess the trees are so plenteous the range offered by a bow is not needed. "Spear-gun" was one suggestion but it doesn't quite capture it, does it? Fancy that, needing to make a glossary entry for "bow" in a tribal culture.

Motorcycles, motorcycles, motorcycles. Having only two narrow wheels one behind the other with an engine to power them, these are the faster of the more reliable forms of transportation during rainy season (the other being your own two feet). By no means do I mean there is steady traffic of them, only that you can depend on them passing you while you're stuck in a mudhole (or behind someone else who is), and on passing them when the road is dry, allowing for some speed. One person on a bike is a rare sight-unless he's loaded down with some freight-otherwise expect to see from 2 to 5 people piled on a motorbike, bumping down the road, zigzagging along the best path. "My truck is stuck." The big trucks (read: slightly larger than a pickup) are preventing from going on some roads by rain gates-poles dug into the ground in the middle of the road, barring access to vehicles wider than a pickup. So, Export "33" ("official" beer of Cameroon), you'll h...

I've never understood the obvious question--when someone asks a question whose answer is right in front of their face. More than that, obvious questions drive me crazy! I guess my problem is that when I talk to someone I want to relate an experience, learn something new, or build relationship. I don't ask pointless questions just for the sake of making conversation. Boy, have I come to the wrong place. "You are there?" asked Johannes one day as I sat in the schoolroom. "There" is "dey," and I understood that, but what I didn't understand was what he could possibly be getting at with this question, so I doubted my comprehension and looked to the girls for help. "Yes," I finally said uncertainly after he clarified with an exaggerated "*th*ere." Johannes laughed at what he thought was my not understanding his pronunciation. "You are doing this?" one of the translators poked his head out the door with that question as ...

Though barring the moot-moots, there's not been much to complain of with insect life so far, I have noticed an increase in the variety and frequency of the insect population as dry season draws closer, so I expect the situation to deteriorate. (Paradoxically to my way of thinking, the bugs are much worse during dry season than rainy season. I guess it's just too wet and not hot enough for them to thrive during the latter.) Nevertheless, I've been torn as to my feelings for spiders in my room. Normally, I'd just squish a spider if I found one inside, but here, I think of the great work they can do and conclude I'd rather share my space with them than with insects. At least the little guys don't bite. Geckos, however, I feel less accepting of. There is one running up and down my wall right now and I'd really prefer he be outside. I don't hold a grudge against him or anything, I think he's a fabulous little guy.but I don't want to share my room with...

Who knew those words could go together? Spaghetti omelette. And not only go together, but taste good. To say it is Cameroonian food would probably be to mislead; perhaps more accurately it is a Cameroonian take on Western food. Whatever it is, eaten here, and it's surprisingly likable. It is just what it sounds like-an omelette with spaghetti in it. Why, you ask? So did I. To get more mileage out of your egg, of course. And to get protein with your spaghetti. (In North America, another reason would be to use up left-over spaghetti, but I don't think that's applicable here.) It's more spaghetti than egg; the egg mostly holds the concoction together. So, adventurous cooks out there, give it a try!

The tooth fairy visited Kenneth the other night and left something on his window sill. "You don't leave your tooth under your pillow?" I asked. Becky leaned over and whispered confidentially, "It's too hard to get in and out of their mosquito nets while they're asleep."

Dusk doesn't last long but it has this palpable quality: the air seems somehow near, and golden. I can't put it into words but it thrills my heart. Dark also has a nearness I've never felt elsewhere, and a warmth which is more than physical. Tiny fireflies like sparks from a campfire flicker in the sky and in the long grasses lining the path. A chorus of cicadas and crickets, with the occasional frog thrown in, chirp so loudly at times you can hardly hear yourself think. Cold white light filtered through the Scotts' and Friesens' curtains is the only significant intrusion on the blackness. A small, warm, orange glow comes from unshuttered windows of village houses or bobs along the path, from the flame of a lantern set up in a corner or carried close to the feet of the walker. The murmur of voices also animates the night: the low rumble of conversation, the more strident tones of an argument, or the comradely laughter of a group.

Proving that it is genetically wired in children to fling at each other the product of precipitation, after a downpour, the kids-both North American and Africa-had a mudball fight. Using small buckets or their hands, they squared off in two teams and hurled mud projectiles at each other.

Gas and milk. A natural combination, yes? In North America, gas pumps routinely share their habitat with vending machines selling cold drinks-usually pop-sometimes juices. Occasionally there will be an ice cream freezer on the premises as well. Cameroonian gas stations have vending machines, too. They sell yoghurt. This is all the more surprising and bizarre to me because I don't think the average Cameroonian eats much of milk products. Then again, the average Cameroonian doesn't drive a motor vehicle, so perhaps the wealthier, the car owners, have made their own take on the habits of Western decadence.