kar0ling

Today in church at home in Winnipeg, we connected via Skype to a family from our congregation who moved to South Africa in August to serve a 5-year term there with MCC. Between the sound delay and the logistics of using a headset alongside a microphone, it was slightly awkward, of course, so we didn't broadcast the whole service, but we shared announcements, prayer requests, prayer, and a song with them. I was thrilled when I heard what we were going to do. It's a huge blessing to worship with brothers and sisters from another culture, but after a while, a certain loneliness creeps in, and one longs for the familiar. I'm so grateful that technology made it possible for us to provide a taste of the familiar for this beloved family.

Christmas without snow? I was dreading it. Of course, the real problem with celebrating Christmas in Cameroon, West Africa, was that my beloved family was far away, but there was no use bemoaning that – it was my choice to spend 10 months in an Oroko village homeschooling missionary kids. So, I focussed on what else was missing: the traditions of a Canadian Christmas. To read on, click here .

Listening to the radio today (having guiltily used the day for my own relaxation, and neglected going to a ceremony), I am reminded of how much I appreciate the name of this holiday in Canada: Remembrance Day. The day to commemorate fallen war dead is the anniversary of the end of "the Great War," the "War to End All Wars," now known as World War I; and accordingly, some of the coverage includes references to the successes of that war (yet even there, commentators do not forget to observe that "teenaged" Canada which emerged "grown-up" from that war did so at the cost of horror and death). Canadian troops are presently engaged in combat in Afghanistan, so that is oft-mentioned as well. But overall, the focus of Remembrance Day is exactly that: remembrance. It is not a day in which we glorify war, trumpet our successes, and flaunt our patriotism. Instead, it is a solemn day when we remember and grieve those who have died in war. There is a place, ...

Obama? The NDP? No, my hand -- for passing things. It's great; I'm still savouring it. Every time I pass someone something with my left hand, halfway through the motion I'm seized with guilt for my faux pas...then, realizing I'm in Canada, flooded with joy and relief that it doesn't matter anymore !

Financial woes from the downturn in the economy are leading people to rediscover the joy of simplicity, Maclean's told us this week. People are even considering lowering themselves to desperate measures. "Never mind brown bagging lunches, people may reuse everything from gift wrap to zip-lock bags ," write Colin Campbell and Jason Kirkby in "Living on Less", Maclean's , Nov. 3, 2008. Funny, I always thought that was normal.

The sight of a bunch of one-occupant cars in traffic has always stirred my ire, but since coming back from Cameroon, it irks me even more. Maybe it’s having seen how many people you can stuff in one vehicle. Seriously, a vehicle containing only a driver is nearly unheard of in Cameroon. On a trip to Kumba, Mike or Dan might leave the house the sole occupant of the truck (even that was rare), but you could rest assured by the time they’d left the village they'd have a few companions. The truck could be packed to the gills containing all 6 Scotts, me, and a pile of luggage for 2 weeks in Bamenda – and we’d still get requests for passengers to hang off the back bumper. Even the fancy SUVs on the highway between Yaounde and Douala usually had as many bodies as seatbelts. If ever, by some strange circumstance, the driver was the only human occupant of a vehicle, most likely the rest would be filled with cargo of some sort. So, now, seeing car after car after car clogging the ro...

When I stepped into my apartment after work today, I was greeted by a wall of heat. They've turned on the heat in the building for the first time this fall, and I think I can lay to rest any fears of shivering all winter. Hopefully these tropical conditions will not persist, however. The second thing I noticed, after a flashback to the rainforest, was a loud hissing sound and a jet of steam rising from the radiator. Something appears to be wrong with the apparatus. I hope it will be fixed soon.

Heat. Barren landscape. Antelope. Heat. Birds. Antelope. Heat. Yes, you're right; all the antelope are really far away, and/or hidden behind pieces of grass. It's all part of the experience, my friends!

I wrote this piece back in September, after attending the "Peace and Unity" soccer tournament. A newly arrived white person in a west-central African village, I’m very conscious I don’t understand the culture, am not familiar with the customs and haven’t got a clue what is expected. So to be singled out for special honours is intensely uncomfortable—especially on account of my conspicuously white skin. Having presented a letter of introduction from my home church to the pastor of the village church where I’d be attending for the year, I was surprised and taken aback to have the pastor read it from the pulpit and invite me to receive the right hand of fellowship right there. The pastor proceeded to preach from the church covenant, saying we all have talents to use to serve God and serve we must. But my talents are so very small. There is so much to learn before my talents can have a place here. Later that day, events rubbed salt in the already smarting sore spot of...

The sky is mesmerizing. The night sky is so strangely luminous to my perception, a deep indigo, and a dusky grey, all at the same time. And so curious. The Golden Boy against this dark yet strangely glowing sky looks so lovely, yet bizarre; I don't understand. Until I realize what's wrong... ...there aren't any stars. It's just light pollution.

--> As a prairie girl, born and raised, I love the sun. The long glorious hours of light on summer nights are worth the long, dark nights of winter, especially with the snow to offer that luminous quality. Because what makes it all so great is the near-daily sunshine. It’s rare to go more than a few days without Mr Golden Sun on the prairies, and I love it. That’s why I didn’t mind the muggy days of transition season, when the sun would still come out again after a hard rain in the Cameroonian rainforest, despite the clouds in the air. You see, when a pounding rain in the morning which leaves big puddles on the ground is followed by a scorching hot sun, you can almost see those mud puddles rise into the air and hang there in a cloying mist, like garlic breath. Anything for some sunshine.

A while back I made pasta in my apartment. The most exciting moment was rinsing the noodles once they'd finished cooking. I just took the colander, and ran water over it--straight from the tap. How exciting is that!!!! If you haven't ever had to rinse pasta by dribbling filtered water over it, you'll probably never understand my glee.

Obviously, this does not refer to Cameroon, for there the daily exchange of light and dark is mostly unvarying and the two are portioned out evenly. The long, lingering evenings of a prairie summer have been glorious. I'm disappointed to see them come to an end. After a rainy day, I left my apartment to take a stroll down the Riverwalk for some fresh air and exercise. Though the wind was blowing, the air was cool, and the ground soggy, I was shocked that in the luminous half-light of the darkening evening there was no one else on the path enjoying the night. Thus comes the downside of our endless evenings--the short hours of sunshine during winter. Alas, they are coming.

Word for word, this blog is taken from lasselantha. It's hilarious and true and I wish I had thought of it first: Our weird and wacky language...with a twist English is full of homophones. You know, homophones... those words that they make you practice spelling over and over in elementary school... the ones that sound the same but are spelled differently. Those confusing words like... "leave" and "live" "sheep" and "ship" and most especially... "hat" and "heart"

The description of the family’s financial affairs was something to that effect in an article on young football players in Cameroon. I read it unblinkingly, conjuring the usual thoughts of “oh the destitution! That she should be consigned to that for survival.” Then, it hit me. Wait a second, I know better than that! All these years journalists have been creating these sob stories—and don’t try to tell me it wasn’t on purpose—around a perfectly normal way of living. EVERYONE sells fish, or plantains, or even shoes off the sidewalk. That the way their whole microeconomy works in Cameroon. It’s not a sign his mother is poor or unable to find a proper job, it’s a sign she’s a normal woman with an entrepreneurial spirit! It’s just another example of how we in the West picture “the poor Africans needing aid”—which is one of the reasons the poor Africans are still needing aid after all these year and nothing is improving. They’re people, just like us. They have their seemingly bizarre, cultur...

I am thoroughly confused by the Oroko/ Bantu/ Cameroonian/ African (pick your generalization) approach to children. On the one hand, children are very important. In the village, it is more important for a woman to have proven her fertility than that she be a virgin when she gets married. It’s not at all unusual for high school girls to be pregnant, and thoroughly it’s normal for the bride to already have children on the wedding day. The only couples without children are ones who are physically unable to produce them—there’s no such thing as choosing not to have kids. So important are children, that adults are identified by their names of their children. Friesens (and everyone else in the village) call their neighbours Sanga Grace, and Nyanga Grace (meaning father of-, mother of Grace—their oldest daughter), rather than Matthias and Judith, or Mr and Mrs Mosongo. That’s the “children are very important” part. But then there’s, well, everything else—which is where I get confused. Kids ru...

“The printer isn’t working.” “Did you try it in the oven?” In a land where relative humidity is around 80% even during dry season, and there is no glass in the window to make climate conditioning possible, the pilot light turns the oven into a perfect hot box. It’s a warm, dry place to dry out electronics…or straighten candles? We don’t know if Mike’s strategy to straighten crooked candles in the oven worked, because he left them there, without telling anyone, then departed for a week of meetings in Bamenda. Christy didn’t look in the oven before putting the bread in. We were all outside harvesting groundnuts when Christy came out from checking the bread, asking if smoke should be coming out of the oven. Becky and I looked at each other and chuckled, wondering what the poor pre-teen had done wrong, but when Becky went to find out, she encountered a kitchen filled with billows of smoke rolling out of the oven, caused by the paraffin which had melted all over the inside of the range. The...

Walking down the street was a vendor pushing a small cart—picture the Dickie Dee’s cart, sans bike component, add a vertical display—loaded with socks. It just seemed an odd thing to be selling in Bamenda to begin with, nevermind from a mobile cart plying the streets.

It’s very convenient to have a white man in the village. White man provides cell phone charge, offers typing and printing service, is a possible buyer of exotic animals found in the bush, can be called upon to patch up minor wounds, has lots of books and a wide knowledge on a variety of subjects, and has cash on hand thus is able to provide money lending service and to turn large bills into smaller, more spendable currency.

Cameroon is often called “Africa in Miniature” because within its borders are found nearly all the major ecosystems of the continent: coast, rainforest, grasslands, and Sahel (pre-Sahara arid zone). I used to chuckle that the name of the northernmost province of Cameroon is “Far North Province” (in French “Extreme Nord”), but having been there I’m no longer laughing. It truly feels like a different country. To get from Bamenda in the west to Maroua in the north, we had to go to Yaoundé in the south to take the train through the night across the Adamawa plain. The night train takes 16 hours to slowly traverse the approximately 300 miles from Yaoundé to N’Gaoundéré. Having slept through the transition zone, as it were, N’Gaoundéré was our gateway to the north, the portal to the new world of “North” opening up before us. Climate & Topography As our bus jounced and jostled even farther north toward Maroua, we could see we were no longer in the familiar rainforests of the south. Not onl...

Being prepared for the worst case scenario turned out well for me: I was prepared for a long and torturous day as a bridesmaid for a woman I don’t even know. It was certainly long—almost 12 hours—but having psyched myself up for one day long of awkwardness, I was *almost* able to enjoy myself. When my alarm went off shortly after 5 in the morning, my sleep-befuddled brain was hard pressed to figure out why there was beeping in the darkness. But in order to be well-fed (in anticipation of eating lunch around 4 p.m.), prettied up, and in the truck, ready to go, at 6:00, I had to rise with the roosters. Actually, it was kind of neat to be awake as the sky lightened. By the time we’d gotten Dan trundled into the truck and were on our way out of the village, it was almost full daylight. The groom had originally wanted both vehicles to come to Kumba at 7:00 in the morning to pick up the wedding party, then process (that’s a verb, with stress on the second syllable, meaning “to move as a proc...

Well, karoling is no longer in Cameroon but she's still got a few stories to tell. Over the next few weeks I hope to finish up all the loose threads of ideas I had floating around for blog posts, so you can expect to hear a bit more about Cameroon, despite my once again Canadian context. I'll apologize now that they'll be more out of order than ever chronologically. Here's something that keeps striking me about life in Canada: It’s a bizarre thing to be so very excited about, I know, but I am very happy that I can now cross my legs with impunity. No looking surreptitiously around to make sure there is no one to offend, no half crossing then catching myself and uncrossing for hours on end as I sit through an interminable event without the relief of stretching different back and butt muscles.

Men in toques, this time. Some of the higher chiefs wear knit caps which appear more distinguished to me, but at the Oroko Language Development Committee’s annual general assembly, I once again noted many people in toques. Chief Esoh and another higher-up wear a thick-woven black one, but I noticed many men in woollen green or red ones; pulling off with great dignity a headpiece that seems grossly out of place to me. This refrain is probably beginning to grow old. The event was supposed to start around 8:30 or 9. It actually started at 11:15 with much preamble before we even got down to business. Joe started by announcing he was “elated to report on….” with the kind of enthusiasm showing in his voice that you’d expect from such an announcement. Initially, the 3 choirs appeared to comprise ¾ of the crowd, but as the day wore on (and it certainly did wear on me), the church in Ekombe Bonji grew fuller and fuller. No event is complete without a screeching sound system. There is constant f...

How would you like to say you graduated from BUST? No joke; the acronym for Bamenda University of Science and Technology is BUST. Another of my favourite acronyms, one which shows great marketing sense, is the First Investment for Financial Assistance bank: FIFFA. In a country obsessed with football (soccer), who wouldn’t want to leave their money with a bank sharing the acronym of the world football association! Many Cameroonian acronyms are not letter for letter, however; many take more letters to make interesting words. Some examples: FuGoSec: Full Gospel Secondary School FINI Hotel: First International Inn SeHeCo: Women’s Self Help Cooperative MoHerb: Modern Herb Pharmacy SOACAM: Societe Alimentaire de Cameroon FINUTRASU: Fako Inter-Urban Transporters Union Cofinest: Communautaire Financier de l’Estuaire And then there’s the abbreviations of missionary life in Cameroon. I suppose they abound in any organization, but it’s fun to see how many you can string together and still be cohe...

I know it’s normal for Cameroonian men to hold hands as a gesture of friendship, so for the most part it’s not jarring when I see it happen. But there’s just something about two men working security, attired in official uniforms…..holding hands. Hard to take them seriously after that.

Waiting at the Chief’s house to give him our greetings and tell him of our presence (for that OLDC meeting that never happened back in April), Lisa and I were able to unobtrusively observe proceedings on the porch as guests moved in and out of the house. It was some kind of cultural gathering featuring a women’s group of some sort of cultural leaders. You could tell which women were part of the deal because they were draped in swaths of cloth—like toga, and knit caps—like toques!

A business in 3 Corners Bekondo: Doctor of Engines: Chainsaw, motorcycle On a truck: Don One [the fun thing about this one is trying to guess what this moniker might mean. Is the truck named “Don Juan”? Is it “done won”, i.e. Pidgin for “I have won”? or is it something else entirely?] On the menu at Handicraft Restaurant in Bamenda: Bonne Appetit Scrabble eggs Marshed potatoes Avocardo bread Roadside sign in Bamenda: Church of Christ Service Center (my question is whether the service centre is part of the church or completely unrelated but sharing the same sign. I suspect the former, but it’s amusing to consider the latter.) Businesses in Bamenda: Never Mind Cold Store Second Hand Tenis Shop [This is a shoe store] World Trade Center [A store selling appliances, as best I could tell] Confidence Man: Provisions/Cold Store Business in Santa: Titanic Photo Business in Yaounde: God’s Bussiness Centre Packaging on small-serving cookie packets: Parle-G: “World’s Largest Selling Biscuit” A bri...

I persevered last night, and opened my first coconut. Dan handed me the nut and a hammer and told me to start in on it. He suggested I toss it up slightly with each blow so as not to end up with a bruised hand at the end, but that was simply not possible given my level of coordination. My hand survived, and even my thumbs escaped the experience unscathed. The coconut, however, did not survive. After much pounding, it eventually yielded to my persistence. The floor was littered with bits of shell and tiny shreds of coconut.

In all fairness, I should admit that most of the goats are tied up, but given how many goats there are in the village, the handful that end up on the loose make an impression. Invariably these fugitive goats drag their tie rope behind them. One day I took a close look at a tied goat and realized why the former exist: he was tied to a tuft of grass. The goat. The grass.

I hate goodbyes. It’s best to pretend I’ll see them all tomorrow again, and in fact, that’s probably why my goodbye to the Scott family was so easy when they drove off today, to remain out of the village until after I leave. It hasn’t sunk in yet that I won’t see them tomorrow, or possibly ever, again.

Or, more accurately, rain in the window. The precipitation was a fine mist, so it did not make the usual racket on the zinc. However, the wind drove it through the window, soaking three feet of floor the width of the window.

Because the small drainage trench is about a foot from the house, the ladder Dan was standing on to reach the roof was nearly vertical. So it’s no big surprise that at some point in the operation, the ladder began to tip backwards. Dan grabbed onto something solid to check his fall: the house. He should have known better. Normally you can’t easily drive nails into concrete walls to hang pictures, but in Cameroon, that is the case. Normally, grabbing onto a concrete wall would be a good choice, but in Cameroon, you may just come away with a hunk of cement in your hand. As Dan discovered. The problem is that sand is much cheaper than cement. Why use all that expensive cement powder when you can make it stretch by adding more sand? (I understand his bewilderment. Normally trees are good things to grab onto to keep from falling, too.) ** No missionaries were hurt in the making of this blog.

Linguistic issues "Of course, you should use the highest and best language! Let's encourage not only fluency but perspicuity and appositeness in language use," cries the linguistic purist--the prescriptivist--in me. Realistically, of course, comprehensibility is a higher priority than eloquence. Are the two dichotomous, you ask? Indeed, they can be; as regards the Fulfulde Bible, for example. This translation, completed in the 1970s, is now facing review and updating. Surprised to hear a people group still considered unreached has had a Bible in their language for so long, I learned the translation's primary target is not necessarily the Fulbe themselves, but the many smaller people groups occupying the same area who speak Fulfulde as a trade language. The issue then, is what version of Fulfulde to use. "High Fulfulde," as spoken by educated Fulbe is not the same language spoken in the market by the many vendors from differing cultural backgrounds. Though th...

The girls had been to 3 Corners market at Christmas time and wanted to go again. I also wished to see the local area market which convenes Mondays and Thursdays, so I'd promised to take them sometime, but had yet to feel in control enough of their schoolwork to allow a day off for such an excursion. They finally left off asking me, appealed to a higher authority, and got their wish granted. I weighed in, however, on transportation, insisting we WALK. On a Thursday morning, Becky, Elsie, Christy, Rachel, Kenneth, and I hoisted empty backpacks & full waterbottles, and set out for the bazaar. Given the way the girls had talked about the journey I was expecting a long arduous trek, so I was surprised to discover the opposite end of Big Bekondo marks nearly halfway there. Of course, I'd travelled the way many times by truck, but it's funny how riding in a vehicle skews your perspective on manageable distances. The ramshackle shelters housing the market were not as chock-a-bl...

It occurred to me -- as I unblinkingly accepted as normal the fact that 4 ladies and an infant climbed into the middle bench of Mike's Toyota LandCruiser (joining the man already seated there) and another 3 piled into the back to wedge themselves in amongst 2 trunks and a computer bag -- that perhaps I might experience a bit of reverse culture shock after all.

In the North of Cameroon, a predominately Muslim area, for a lady to reveal her upper arms, shoulders, and hair is to be shamefully exposed -- yet women's slips and underwear are displayed prominently by vendors in the market stalls. That the latter should be a non-issue when the former is anathema seems a contradiction to me. But I'll take it as proof that ideals of propriety are culturally defined, not derived from an absolute standard. Even more ironic was an old lady selling tomatoes by the side of the street in Maroua: her head and arms were properly veiled by her pagne, but reaching forward to display her wares displayed a bare chest underneath the cloth.

Joshua loves to talk. He loves to tell stories. One word stories. Fortunately, Joshua's vocabulary is rapidly expanding to include more words--or perhaps I should say more discreet words. Joshua has long said, for example, "spoon," "shoe," and "juice," but until recently they all sounded like "SHU!" He also has names for the personages (including furry ones) in his life. "Da-da" (Dad), and "Day-da" (Radar, the dog) are distinguishable only to the discerning ear. "Ma" has evolved to "Mam" or "Mam-mam," which seems adorably anachronistic coming from such a little one. Sister Rachel is "Day-cho." Cat Dongwa is "Da-wa" while growing kitten Eowyn is usually just "ki-yi." Joshua's best friend from the village, young CeCe, presents no difficulty for him. I, as yet, am "Ga."

Have you ever tasted hot pop? I do mean hot, not simply luke-warm. If the parched state of affairs had not yet convinced me of the scorching, arid conditions near Maroua, the fact that the Djino (Cameroonian fruit-flavoured soft drink) between my feet was burning after a few hours travel on the bus, did. Boiling hot carbonated drinks produce a curiously piquant sensation in the throat.

I'm not even in cities very often to use this exciting conveyance; nevertheless, it struck me as I buzzed down the streets of Maroua on the back of a moto-taxi that there is no such thing in Winnipeg. More's the pity, I say. I'll miss the convenience of simply hailing a passing motorcycle to expedite a journey when I weary of walking.

The Fulani, or Fulbe, or Fula, or Pullo, or Pel, or Peulh, or Futafula people are a lighter-skinned (non-Bantu), traditionally cattle-herding (thus semi-nomadic), culturally Muslim people group spread across West Africa from Senegal to Cameroon. Their language is called Fulfulde. That's how they're usually described--with such a list of names. Curiousity piqued, during World Team conference I asked the man who works with said people to explain what the names are all about. Simple, he said. Fulani is the Hausa (majority ethnic group and trade language of Nigeria) word for the people who call themselves the Fulbe. One person is a Fula. What does "Fulbe" mean? "The people." Reminds me of North American Aboriginal groups who are often known popularly by other tribes' name for them. Example: "Eskimo" scornfully named "eaters of raw meat" by a neighbouring Alonquian (I believe) tribe . Their name for themselves, of course, is "The peop...

Ah, air conditioning in the car. What a treat. After my trip north, what a blissfully comfortable ride home from Kumba I had with the Scotts, crammed in the backseat with the kids yammering my ear off. It's humid as all get out here, but that's home to me now. The place is crawling with ants and I'm back to being bug bait, but that's home to me now. The village is noisy with children crying and shouting all day, adults partying all evening, and early birds swishing machetes through the foliage in the wee hours of the morning, but that's home to me now. My travels were truly wonderful, and I don't regret a moment of them, but it's good to be home. **Editorial comment: I apologize for the tardiness and out-of-sequenceness of the entries on my trip north and return home.

The good thing about mango season...well, the good, or rather, GREAT thing about mango season is, of course, that you get to eat tons of mangos (at 5 for 100 CFA, or about 25¢),... but the fringe benefit is that it provides practical motivation to do what your dentist is always telling you to do (which you guiltily pretend to do more often than is true) -- floss regularly.

Transition-season-moving-toward-rainy-season seems to be a fruitful time for the yield of the field (or rather, forest). At one time, we had bananas & pineapple (both all-season fruit), mangoes, guavas, bushapples, lemons & oranges (in their minor season), avocadoes in the house here in Bekondo. Yum! The village kids just kept on coming bringing their excess fruits. I was particularly impressed by the young man from whom I purchased some guavas; on Sunday he was in church (a rare occurrence in itself) and went up during offering to put money in the basket. That was one of the first times I've remarked a child going up for offering.

When purchasing our train tickets, it seemed a good idea to Kara and I to save a few thousand francs by going with the 4-bed couchette rather than the higher priced 2-bed couchette for the 16-hr trip from Yaoundé to N'Gaoundéré. A few hours before boarding, we realized this may not have been the brightest idea, and as we sweated in the humid, crowded, second-story, first-class waiting room, it occurred this may have been a very unwise choice. To our relief, however, once the train was boarded and began to pull out of the station at 6:10 pm (on time!--to my utter amazement, after warning announcements ["the train's departure is imminent!"]--to my very great surprise), we found ourselves with two Cameroonian ladies as companions for the trip. The one lady lay down to sleep without further ado and did not interact with us at all for the whole trip. We expected the other lady, attired in the Northern fashion, to do the same, but she entertained men half the night! For hou...

It has: traffic signals crosswalks a city busline (with brand new shiny blue buses) sidewalks businesses with flat screen computers at their checkout counter

Twelve hours in transit. Shorter, I suppose, than it might have been, but not at all the day we'd planned. Kara and I began our journey to the north with a bus ride to the south hoping to catch the train for N'Gaoundéré at 18:00. Turns out at Guarantee/Garanti bus lines, there's no guarantee of being on time. Our plan was for all this to occur in one day. Emmanuel, who tried unsuccessfully to book tickets for us a day early, reported the bus should leave at 8:00. Accordingly, we arrived at 7:30. Our tickets (printed out by a real computer on professional-looking ticket paper) read departure 9:00 am. Cheered by the sight of a big coach to travel on, rather than the smaller Coaster buses, we were less happy to see the bus leave the park shortly after 8, but supposed that filling up gas before leaving was a good portent. Unfortunately the bus didn't return to the park until 9:30...but it was washed. Given we're now half an hour behind schedule, one would think loadin...

Elsie took me out to Mbingo for the day to see the scenery, greet some CMFers and see the hospital. Unfortunately, it was rainy and overcast with great, thick, low clouds covering the hills, so the panorama she was so eager to show me was hidden. Nevertheless, the green hills were very impressive. Take away the zinc-roofed, mud-walled houses and one might think it were Ireland. Certainly not the picture of Africa I’ve ever drawn in my mind’s eye. The hospital. I avoid hospitals and doctors as much as possible in Canada, but I was curious to see the place I’d heard so much about here. The most interesting thing about the tour was probably the fact that I wandered around the entire hospital with a guide who is neither medical personnel nor a hospital worker, nor even a resident on the compound. She has been around enough to know what she’s talking about, of course, but I was struck by how utterly forbidden—indeed, impossible—this scenario would be in North America. The place was pretty q...

Cameroonians like to apply the word “prompt” to start times. You’d think I’d have learned already to take it with a grain of salt. It’s not to say I’m always on time; in fact, I can’t say I’ve shown up to many events on time—if any. In my defense, however, I can’t say many events I’ve been to have started on time either. On the way up to Bamenda, the bus stopped in Melong to allow patrons to get out, move around, and buy food from the multitudinous vendors at the roadside selling soya, pistaches, plantains, groundnuts, sweet drinks, bread, pineapples, etc. “15 minutes ONLY!” the driver yelled. Some 30 minutes after the bus had stopped, the driver returned to the vehicle and the wise ones who waited re-embarked the bus. I was not one of the wise ones.

Roadside attractions: a pool table. A framework suggestive of a small roof-shelter surrounded the entertainment zone but no roof was in evidence. A number of players were assembled, though, and enjoying a good game of billiards.

In the taxi ride back from Mbingo the other day, the radio was on. A number of panellists were discussing what it takes to be successful. It was a rather apposite discussion given the conversation Elsie had just had with the man next to her in the backseat. This man felt Cameroonian university graduates weren’t doing enough to help their countrymen. Some of the commentators made wise remarks, others were not so helpful. One woman dismissed a fellow critic’s remark as “bush folly,” an insult which says a lot about people’s perspectives. She followed up with the very insightful analogy: “If you’re a lizard in Africa, don’t expect to be a crocodile in America.” In other words, changing your exterior circumstances doesn’t change who you are. It’s good advice, not only for Africans who think life will be perfect in North America, but also for North Americans who think “becoming a missionary” will make them into “super Christians.”

There is a reason “bush taxi” is uttered with some reverence. After freshening up somewhat in Kumba, rectifying one misunderstanding but continuing to receive bad news about likely attendance for our meeting, we nevertheless set out for Ekondo Titi by bush taxi. The taxi park at Mbonge road was an experience in and of itself. Crowds converged upon the taxi as we got out, everyone eager to help the white man. “Welcome to our country!” “How long have you been here?” (In response to the latter, another man retorted, referring to Lisa’s Oroko Bible translation t-shirt, “Look at her shirt dummy; she’s part of the translation project -- she's been here 10 years!”) The car to Bekondo, loading and nearly ready to leave, hailed us, but we turned them aside and went to purchase our tickets to ET. Filling #2 and #3 place on the list, we sat down to wait for the car to fill. Four passengers in a 2-door car is not good enough, no; a full car has 4 in the back, 4 (including driver) in front. Chi...

I understand now why the missionaries all own private vehicles. The savings cannot possibly outweigh the frustrations of public transport. In the past few days I have experienced a variety of modes and journeys on public transportation. It all started in Mutengene. Shortly after arriving in the taxi park we were loaded onto a bus (a 15-passenger van-type affair) in which we sat and sweated for about an hour and a half before leaving. Lisa was trying to call the members of the literacy committee with whom we were supposed to be meeting in Ekondo Titi, thus the reason for our trip. Time passed quickly in the red bus called Symbol and before I knew it the bus was loaded—3 people on the benches and not 1 but 2 people on the jump seats. A vehicle which would hold 15 people in North America was packed with 20 people, roof piled high with luggage of all shapes and sizes including a bedframe loaded on top. Across the road was a bus called Patience, which I fancied an inauspicious name for a tr...

On the outskirts of the market, by the taxi park in Ekondo Titi, there was a shop selling TVs on one side of the street and a bunch of treadle sewing machines for sale on the other. Close to Mbouda on the way to Bamenda, I saw mansion after mansion after mansion, with little mud-brick huts scattered between. Landlines never really became available to the common man in Cameroon, but now everyone has a cellphone equipped with the latest gadgets.

Jouncing through the pitted roads of Bamenda in a taxi, the driver made an awkward U-turn after a passing motorist indicated an underinflated tire. This gave me the opportunity to observe a shiny new Grand Vitara with Manitoba plates pass by. Wait…… MANITOBA PLATES!?!?!?! It’s a mystery.

How many 6-year-olds are excited to get a box of nails and a jar of Calve mayonnaise for their birthday? How many birthday parties are conducted in 3 languages: Cameroonian English (distinct from standard Canadian English), French and Spanish? And would you believe the kid that won musical chairs had her 2-year-old brother tied to her back until the last round?

Joe, one of the Oroko translators and literacy committee members, finished seminary recently and was being ordained as a minister in the Presbyterian Church in Cameroon, so everyone from our team except Becky and “the kids” (Kenneth and Laura) were present for his big day in early December. There were a total of about 8 seminarians to sanction at the service held in the large Presbyterian Church in Kumba. An impressive building with a soaring ceiling (topped, as usual, with the ubiquitous “zinc”), it had painted white and green cement walls with decorative square “vents” cut in, louvered windows at eye level, and high windows of “stained glass” (solid panes of green, red, yellow: the colours of Cameroon’s flag). Cloth lilies were tied to supporting poles for decoration. The illuminated cross at the front of the church comprised four long fluorescent light bulbs. A bolt of the official patterned PCC cloth decorated the wall behind the altar while flashing Christmas lights adorned either...