kar0ling

Well, not a day, actually; a month-but can't you hear someone crooning the song? Kumba made a very different impression on me this time around. When we first came through in August on our way home from Bamenda, Cameroon was still new to me; the look of towns, buildings, and roads-and the way of life in general-were things I was trying to wrap my brain around. I didn't know what I expected Kumba to look like, but it wasn't what I expected. For one, the city (like all others in Cameroon) looked so spread out-it didn't fit my idea of an urban settlement. The buildings looked so small, colourless, and dusty. Overall, the experience was one of observation overload. Not so anymore! Driving into Kumba after a month in the village, things are not only familiar, but capable of inspiring appreciation. I was impressed by the size of the buildings (2 stories some of them!), their permanence (built with concrete or sturdy, painted wood), their colour (everything is painted, even if ...

For someone who felt panicky if separated from her cell phone for any length of time back in Canada, I'm remarkably unconcerned about being almost completely incommunicado here in the village. There are no landlines reaching this far, and even cellphones-of which Africans are as fond as North Americans-are useless in Bekondo because the signal isn't strong enough to make or receive calls from the village. It's the girls who have often complained of the lack of phones: "If only we could just call people, we wouldn't have to walk all the way over there for nothing!" I figured that was just par for the course in village life. What I find interesting is the isolation from the outside world. We do have a radio linking us to other World Team missionaries and through which we send and receive email, but that only puts us in touch with select people-and only if they sign on. So, when Mike goes to town to pick up supplies or attend a meeting, he has no way of letting B...

Men carrying chainsaws on their heads. Walking to and from their fields, you’ll see men with a chainsaw balanced carefully on their heads, the blade sticking way out in front of them, the motor resting atop their crowns.

I just spent a wonderful weekend in Kumba! When Becky first proposed my going to town for the weekend to visit Kara while Mike did a supply run and went to a meeting I didn't jump at the chance. I felt shy about imposing on this missionary girl I'd met briefly but not really talked to. Intimidating me further, to make the arrangements, I had to invite myself over. But in the end, it was a great way to mark my anniversary of one month in the village: by getting OUT of the village. It was also great to hang around with a North American of my peer group for the first time in almost two months. And, life at the Lutheran compound is the lap of luxury. It's the little things that make the difference. With the disclaimer that we really want for nothing in the village (as far as necessities go), and that we live like kings compared to the rest of the village, nevertheless, my stay in Kumba was remarkable for the many little luxuries I enjoyed there. Electricity whose use is not str...

The ground in the village is littered with refuse: plum pits, monkey kola peel, squeezed oranges, corn cobs, dead leaves, broken bamboo pieces and wilted flowers. Thus I begin to understand why the cities here (and Aboriginal reserves at home) tend to have a lot of garbage lying around. The above-listed items are all biodegradable - they easily smush and soon become part of the path - so the concept of a garbage can is completely unnecessary. True, the path is then not clear and uncluttered by refuse, but hey, it's the village after all, with everpresent gooey mud; it's never going to look like a swept sidewalk - it's not likely to occur to anyone that would be a possibility! So with the introduction of packing and non-biodegradable refuse, it takes a really long time to work this wasteful idea of garbage cans into the cultural mindset. Perhaps, rather than 'why are they so dirty?' the question is 'why are we so wasteful?'

This time it's bush apples. In a bowl, on the table, they look like apples. Slightly longer/less round, yes, but for something with the name "bush apple," the colouring and general appearance is about right. When you bite into them, the impression is not entirely dispelled. Granted, they don't taste like an ordinary apple, but are reminiscent of Chinese apple-pears, though lacking the firmness and crispness of either the aforementioned or an ordinary apple. So it wasn't until I reached the centre that I realized we were dealing with a horse of another colour. There, where the core should have been, was a small, round, light brown pit. Not an apple after all, it seems. Finally, let me not forget the "grapes"-they've made their appearance. We haven't opened them up yet, but Becky showed me two huge grapefruits, one in particular is as large as a pomelo. I guess grapes as we know them in North America are actually a product of our colder, more north...

Before I even left Canada, Uncle Pete psyched me up for the cocoa breaking experience. In Bamenda, I learned all about the “life cycle” of a cocoa bean from tree to candy bar while helping Elsie prepare lessons for the FES chocolate unit. So it was with great excitement I received the summons: put on your bush clothes. Johannes has invited us to his cocoa breaking. It was a gentle initiation. The path to the field took a mere 5 minutes to traverse, the pile of cocoa pods was not monstrous; and the machete-wielders were not too numerous. Cocoa trees are not in straight rows or cleared plots; they grow randomly in the rainforest—planted, yes; belonging to a particular farmer, certainly; but orderly and dense the way farms at home are, no. Cocoa pods grow on trees, hanging down in the most random places, from both branch and trunk. They range in colour from deep purple, to bright yellow and orange, to green, to black. Okay, the black ones are found not so much on the tree as in the heap o...

You know, kitty, you don't have to make me like you. I'm naturally disposed to like cats; they need to earn my enmity, not my love. I liked this cat already, before any of it: she's a cat, and every so often she'll come sit on my lap. That's all it takes. I thought I saw a dark shadow scurry along the floor at least twice this evening, but never caught sight of what it was so I wasn't even sure it was anything at all until the cat began to show intense interest in the shoe rack-the last place I thought I saw the shadow go. She monitored it vigilantly-running from one side to the next, peeking her nose behind the boots and shoes as far as it would go-for close to an hour, I'd say, before the little mouse finally had enough and tried to make a run for it. Holly, of course, was waiting. The cat pounced with joy and eagerly chased the poor thing from one end of the room to another. The mouse tired (or expired) from the activity long before the cat did, so, not t...

I'd been warned, but it's one of those things you really can't believe until you've seen it yourself. I wore my Birkenstocks to church on Sunday then didn't return to them until the following Sunday. Imagine my surprise to find a vigorous growth of mould on the leather footbed. ONE week of disuse! With some concern, I checked on my lovely Merrill sandals which I haven't been wearing at all in the village. They, too, had a little bit of mould growing on them, but less than the Birks, to my relief. I wasn't planning on wearing them in the village to preserve them from the mud so as to keep them presentable as footwear for other locations. Perhaps if I put them in a Zip-loc bag.?

The elite houses of the village are concrete buildings - roofed with corrugated tin, or "zinc", of course - with decorative but functional bars on their glass-paned windows. Now, windows here do not mean one pane of glass covering the opening; instead, it means louvered horizontal slats 2-3 inches tall running (hopefully) the majority of the opening. The likelihood that the size of the glass matches the size of the opening is low unless you've gotten the glass cut especially for you, so there's often a gap at the top and possibly at the sides. This type of window apparatus allows light and air to flow through but keeps the rain out. The next most luxurious option in village housing includes the missionaries' houses in the village. These are also concrete and zinc with the same bars on their windows which are screened but have no glass. Yes, this means the rain gets blown in at times, but it saves you washing the floor, right? You just need to make sure you don...

I think it's going to be a long fight between the two of us and I suspect they're going to stay on the winning side of things. The other day the weather was so beautiful when returning from my after-supper trip to feed the cats that I just stayed out on the porch and soaked up the beautiful scenery, the voices of the neighbours and the bright setting sun. Sitting there, I asked myself, why haven't I done this before? I was called into the house before long, my sunset drinking cut short, so today, despite a fair amount of cloud making a much less lovely evening, I nevertheless determined to enjoy the weather on the porch after supper. By the way, I've got all these itchy bites and I was thoroughly stumped as to where they came from. I have hardly seen a single mosquito here and the one or two I've seen have been so sluggish and slow-moving, I easily sent them to mosquito heaven. I haven't caught anything trying to bite me yet I keep finding insidious itchy spots....

Transition period It seems I'm not the only one waiting for rainy season to end. Becky exultantly hailed the appearance of a dragonfly today. Copious and exuberant thunderstorms and plenteous dragonflies are the signs of the transition between rainy season and dry. We've been hearing a lot of thunder in the past few days, though we haven't experienced the "rain blowing into every window" thunderstorms I've been warned of just yet.

For poetry, we've been reading through Alligator Pie by Dennis Lee - yes, it's for younger kids, but it complements our Canadian History unit and the girls are largely unfamiliar with poetry. One day when I assigned them to write their own poem modelled on Lee's, I also wrote one. For your amusement: A long red road leads to Big Bekondo; A long red road leads to the village. And on that long red road is a great big mud puddle. A man went through the puddle, The great big mud puddle .and left behind his shoes. A long red road leads to Big Bekondo; A long red road leads to the village. And on that long red road is a great big mud puddle. A motorcycle went through the puddle, The great big mud puddle .and left behind its load of bananas. A long red road leads to Big Bekondo; A long red road leads to the village. And on that long red road is a great big mud puddle. A taxicar went through the puddle, The great big mud puddle .and left behind a passenger. A long red road leads to...

What came first, the fruit or the colour? I don't know, but I can attest to the fact that oranges are not orange here in Cameroon. The colour orange only comes at a state of extreme ripeness; that stage where if you look at the fruit the wrong way it'll rot. Accordingly, oranges are picked, sold, and eaten green - on the outside anyway. I must admit they do taste different from any oranges I've had before, so in all fairness, they are probably a different breed of orange than those we eat in North America, so perhaps the latter has done more to earn their name.

No, not the rabbit walking through the forest. Food. There are different types of fufu, depending on what it's made from. (As far as I know, this staple carbohydrate comes in cocoyam and corn varieties.) I've had the very similar Congo-style luku-made with cassava, I believe-in Canada, and now I've had South West Province Cameroon-style fufu in the village. Made from a particular type of cocoyam, the purplish-skinned tuber is peeled and boiled like a potato then placed in a large mortar where it is pounded to a greyish-white gooey paste. Johannes, the Scotts' cook, made it today and invited us all to participate in the pounding. Kenneth gleefully mashed up the cocoyams, then I got a turn at pounding the now very sticky mush. It looks like mashed potatoes, but gives a great deal more resistance. With the mortar on the floor, I sat on a chair, using my feet to keep it steady while battering the cocoyams into submission. I've always been one to be turned off by texture...

Washing my hands before lunch, I heard the scrabbling of tiny feet on concrete. A 6-inch lizard was running toward the corner of the shower cubicle. I finished washing my hands and walked calmly to the kitchen, announcing, "There's a lizard of significant size in my shower; is there something I should I do?" Mike smiles and says, "Get the cat." The kids rushed to the shower in anticipation while I hunted down the slender teenaged housecat, Holly. To my surprise, the normally indolent and placid puss saw the lizard as soon as I put her down on the bathroom floor and was immediately on the hunt. I tried to get the kids to move out of the way to let her do her job, but there was no need. Within 5 seconds, the lizard was in her mouth and she was unceremoniously ushered outside to enjoy her catch. So, if you were thinking keeping a housecat here in the village was simply a holdover from decadent Western habits, think again. I suddenly have an enormous appreciation fo...

Today I ate cashews. Only, they weren't actually cashews. I have no idea what they would be called in another life, so I'll do my best to describe them. It is a nut, served boiled. You crack the thin shell of the dark brown quarter-sized round nut, either with a nut cracker, or with your teeth as the locals do, and eat the colourless meat. It doesn't taste particularly nutty, but that is probably in part because it is boiled, not roasted. The flavour isn't particularly strong one way or another, but I was warned not to drink water immediately after eating as it would dry out my mouth. If anyone has any ideas to solve the mystery of the Cameroonian cashews, I invite you to post and enlighten us all.

Apparently I spoke too soon. Who knew insect bites could have a delayed reaction? They started itching about 24 hours later.

First and foremost, the sound of children calling, laughing, yelling, playing. Birds twittering in the trees. Frogs croaking just like those wooden toys you can buy at 10 Thousand Villages. The thump of a poorly-filled ball kicked around in a game of soccer, heard notably often during downpours. The scraping and thumping of geckos scurrying along the ceiling, just under the roof. The pitter-patter of rain on the roof and the flapping of flipflops as we run outside to bring in the half-dry laundry before it gets soaked again. At other times, the thunder of rain pounding the roof till you wonder if it'll hold up under the assault. One day, to my utter surprise, evoking a homey feeling, the sound of a weed whacker. Another day, to the same result, the sound of a small plane flying overhead. The swish of palm leaves brushing against each other in the rain, leading me to the window to check if showers are falling again. Distant rumbling of thunder portending rain. Drumming and laughing ...

After joining the kids one morning to see off their dad on a supply trip to Kumba, we returned to the schoolroom and resumed our work. Suddenly, I noticed little red spots up and down my arm. It looked like I'd been attacked by a pink marker, or had developed a case of chicken pox -- but only on exposed skin. I was puzzled, but saw no cause for extreme alarm unless it spread everywhere or didn't go away in a day or two. At lunch, the mystery was solved when one of the girls noted, "oh, you got bitten by the moot-moots!" Apparently, they're tiny biting flies that are at their worst mid-morning -- exactly when we were outside. To my very great surprise (and initial puzzlement), the bites weren't itchy at all, but apparently I'm lucky that way. Some people don't find them the slightest bit itchy while others nearly go mad.

Today I went to the "Nekongoh Peace and Unity Football Tournament, 1st edition" at the soccer pitch of the Big Bekondo secondary school. Becky and I left the house midafternoon for the 3 km walk to the grounds. When we arrived, the dancers were just beginning. A group of ladies in (mostly) matching skirts were shuffling rhythmically along, bent at the waist, posteriors protruding, shoulders shaking to the sound of drums, a whistle, a handbell, and of course, their own sing-song chant. They worked their way into the grounds from the fence outside, right into the soccer pitch, stopping in front of the small shelter set up for dignitaries. This went on for about half an hour, I believe. Next was a short dance/skit exhibition from a troupe from Kumba called "Spako and ? (didn't catch the name)." This consisted of 3 men, 2 oddly-dressed, both featuring undergarments; and one with a fake beard, costumed as a portly police officer, with the letters OPP on his hat. I do...