kar0ling

As a group of Cameroonian adolescent girls at Seme Beach in Limbe passed by I caught snatches of their conversation. “Hunh,” I thought to myself, “that sounded like German.” “Don’t jump to conclusions, Karla,” I quickly retorted. “They’re probably speaking a local dialect with gutturals and sibilants like German.” Then another chattering girl breezed past, her words quite distinct: “Ich weiss nicht,” removing all doubt as to what language they were speaking. I know Cameroon was under the Germans for a good part of their colonial history, but it still wasn’t something I was expecting to hear.

Prior to February, when I travelled out of the village for a few days, Mike would always make sure I had my passport. Frankly, I thought it a bit strange given that I have a Cameroonian ID; I would’ve thought it preferable to leave the passport at home where I cannot be relieved of it by unscrupulous souls. The reason, Mike explained, that they always take passports along when they leave the village for any length of time, is that you want to be ready to flee the country should the need arise. Seemed kind of alarmist to me at the time. Then the taxi strike happened. I understand now, and don’t question when exhorted to bring my passport when leaving the village.

Limbe has garbage cans! Wow! Seriously, this is an exciting thing, to find not only a garbage can in both the room and bathroom at the Miramar (itself, a rare enough occurrence) but also public garbage cans outside on the grounds. Wonderful! Then, even more miraculous, a large garbage receptacle out on the street in town. I really don’t make it a goal to produce so much refuse—quite the opposite—but after 8 months of not being able to find a place to throw out any small piece of garbage ever (e.g. a napkin, a Kleenex, a banana peel, a plastic bag that formerly held groundnuts), it’s wonderful to have a third option to littering or carrying it home with me.

Obvious effects of rainforest on objects are mould (e.g. shoe leather) and a grossly shortened lifespan for electronics. But the humidity and heat of the rainforest also has a curious effect on other things: Rubber/plastic Who would've expected that constant humidity and persistently above-room-temperature environment would lead to brittleness in plastic? Tupperware/plastic containers--a valuable item here to keep creepy crawlies out of food--take a beating, especially the lids which crack without warning after a certain interval of use. Hair I'm not a girly girl who spends a whole lot of time, money, or energy on my hair, but, slob that I am, even I noticed a difference in my hair here. Sure, I've always known a certain amount of humidity makes for happy hair, but I thought that mostly applied to curly-haired people. For one, I don't need to use conditioner. Two, static is unheard of. Tinfoil That an old roll of tinfoil would start to discolour after a whi...

"Have you noticed how you can tell which denomination a church belongs to by the similarity of its decorating style to those of denominations back home?" Dan asked as we stepped into an Apostolic Church. I hadn't, but once he pointed it out, I began to see what he was talking about. What I had noticed was that Kingdom Halls of the Jehovah's Witnesses (who have made it nearly as far into the bush as Bekondo) have the same plain, nearly windowless, rectangular-box look out here as they do at home. Baptist churches are plain structures: rectangular buildings with pitched roofs. Simple and functional. Presbyterian churches are not ornate stone cathedrals like First Presbyterian or Westminster United in Winnipeg, but are aesthetically pleasing structures with solid walls, usually a bell-tower, and some detail. They also have a raised pulpit and a lectionary. I haven't been in any Catholic churches here, but from the outside they are the nicest looking buildings around....

To complement our special unit on Cameroon in during Dry Season FES, the whole group went on a field trip to the Bafut Palace, and the Mankon Museum about an hour's drive away. The tribal ruler in the North West Province is called the "Fon" and is revered to the point of worship. This contrasts with the chiefs in the South West Province who are elected, and, as we have seen recently in Bekondo, are treated as ordinary mortals, and subject to scandals and libel same as any other person. Bafut Palace The Bafut palace had already come alive in my mind through the hysterically funny storytelling of Gerald Durrell in The Bafut Beagles , the story of his time in Cameroon rounding up animals for the London Zoo. It's truly a delightful read; the man has a great ear for Pidgin, and a masterful way of describing his experiences in a wry, self-deprecating tone. Unfortunately -- at least to my preliminary investigations -- it's currently out of print. The guesthouse where Dur...

While we're on the topic of interesting food, I finally got to try snails. Or rather, snail. (Not that I was waiting on tenterhooks, but it was a goodly while ago they warned snails would be on the menu.) The night Friesens had snails for supper I was eating at the Scotts, but, eager that I should not miss out on the cultural experience, Lisa sent some rice, snails and sauce over for me to try. The sauce was tasty, though it had a vaguely snail-like essence to it. The snails were not repellent but neither were they palatable. They didn't have much flavour, so the overwhelming impression was of rubbery gnurple. I'll try anything once, I always say. After that I may get selective.