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.”