Monday, April 25, 2011
A Cameroonian Easter
I have to admit, I had low expectations for Easter here, no cadbury eggs AND church service at 5:30 AM -- the situation looked dire. But, I totally lucked out, not only did the family skip church service because they were afraid of traveling in the dark (though, don't for a second think my family isn't religious, my Mom attended two church services on Good Friday) but instead I spent the day cooking and partying at baptism reception for Anna's host siblings. In the morning, after exploring Mendong and even making it to the outskirts of Yaounde, I helped my host Mom make 100(!) meat pies. Afterwards, I went to Anna's where I think I morally offended her host Dad when I said that one beer was more than enough for me. Bon Fete.
Far North
Whew. So back from the Far North. I felt like a globetrekker -- nothing about the journey there was easy -- but it was fantastic and showed me another side of Africa. It would be a real wasted effort to try and summarize the past nine days so instead here are the most memorable moments:
- Travel: 36 hours on the train (eight of which were a breakdown) + over thirty hours in a bus. I think I could've handled the extreme heat/lack of AC & cramped quarters but I've lost my iPod which did not do me any favors...whine.whine.whine.
-Waza. This is the national park where we went on safari. We saw giraffes, monkeys, antelopes, wild boar, vultures, and lions. So neat. And, to give an idea how hot it was in the North, our "hotel" (re: room with bed) didn't have AC and in the end the whole group risked the bugs/possible wild animals to sleep outside just on our mattresses.
-Maroua. This is the capital of the Far North and excluding the oppressive heat the city is beautiful. The quiet dusty streets are lined with shady trees and the architecture feels like something out of the Middle East. A far cry from chaotic and crowded Yaounde.
-Muslim influence. The Far North is largely Muslim so not only is the style of dress much different (conservative, less western) but people's behavior is too. Whereas in the South of Cameroon, I am constantly bombarded as a white, here I left in peace and even the aggressive market vendors let me pass largely undisturbed. Of course, while I think there is something to be said for this, the Muslim influence also dictates strict gender roles. I hate the idea of being culturally imperialistic, but there is no way around it for me, some of the practices in the north I think undeniably violate human rights, including:
-Female Genital Mutation
-Acceptance for women as young as twelve marrying men of any age
-Shame associated with being an unmarried woman
-Expectation that women should never been seen by other men and are thus confined to the home and are nothing more than objects.
The list goes on and the necessity of keeping a woman "pure" for her husband results in bizarre ways -- there are few taxis since men hate the idea of their wives sitting next to strange men in the car and city lacks storey buildings because of the fear that men who live in upper level apartments could look down to a another courtyard and see another man's wife.
-Village life: We only drove on main roads, but nevertheless the villages we passed were so isolated and consisted just of mud huts with straw roofs and maybe a mosque. While I can do without TV/cell phone/internet for a period of time, I really can't imagine a community entirely absent of all this.
-And, best of all, we went on a six mile hike that took us over the Cameroon border and into Nigeria. No border patrol, you simply pass a small rock that marks the line and then are in Nigeria.
Obviously this doesn't even begin to describe the trip, but it was really was terrific and, because my sister is great, I even had a camera to take lots of pictures which really illustrate everything I am trying to say.
- Travel: 36 hours on the train (eight of which were a breakdown) + over thirty hours in a bus. I think I could've handled the extreme heat/lack of AC & cramped quarters but I've lost my iPod which did not do me any favors...whine.whine.whine.
-Waza. This is the national park where we went on safari. We saw giraffes, monkeys, antelopes, wild boar, vultures, and lions. So neat. And, to give an idea how hot it was in the North, our "hotel" (re: room with bed) didn't have AC and in the end the whole group risked the bugs/possible wild animals to sleep outside just on our mattresses.
-Maroua. This is the capital of the Far North and excluding the oppressive heat the city is beautiful. The quiet dusty streets are lined with shady trees and the architecture feels like something out of the Middle East. A far cry from chaotic and crowded Yaounde.
-Muslim influence. The Far North is largely Muslim so not only is the style of dress much different (conservative, less western) but people's behavior is too. Whereas in the South of Cameroon, I am constantly bombarded as a white, here I left in peace and even the aggressive market vendors let me pass largely undisturbed. Of course, while I think there is something to be said for this, the Muslim influence also dictates strict gender roles. I hate the idea of being culturally imperialistic, but there is no way around it for me, some of the practices in the north I think undeniably violate human rights, including:
-Female Genital Mutation
-Acceptance for women as young as twelve marrying men of any age
-Shame associated with being an unmarried woman
-Expectation that women should never been seen by other men and are thus confined to the home and are nothing more than objects.
The list goes on and the necessity of keeping a woman "pure" for her husband results in bizarre ways -- there are few taxis since men hate the idea of their wives sitting next to strange men in the car and city lacks storey buildings because of the fear that men who live in upper level apartments could look down to a another courtyard and see another man's wife.
-Village life: We only drove on main roads, but nevertheless the villages we passed were so isolated and consisted just of mud huts with straw roofs and maybe a mosque. While I can do without TV/cell phone/internet for a period of time, I really can't imagine a community entirely absent of all this.
-And, best of all, we went on a six mile hike that took us over the Cameroon border and into Nigeria. No border patrol, you simply pass a small rock that marks the line and then are in Nigeria.
Obviously this doesn't even begin to describe the trip, but it was really was terrific and, because my sister is great, I even had a camera to take lots of pictures which really illustrate everything I am trying to say.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Traveling
Going to the Extreme Nord tomorrow!! This is honestly the most excited I've been for a trip in, well, ever. Obviously coming to Cameroon had its share of anxieties pre-departure and other trips around the US/Europe have had a level of familiarity that maybe took away from the adventure. The Extreme Nord is the very end of Cameroon and the region furthest away from the Atlantic Ocean and is the part of Cameroon wedged between Nigeria and Chad. It's brutally hot -- 39 degrees Celsius...which while I do not know what that translates to in Fahrenheit I can assume I will probably die if Cameroonians call it hot. The region is predominantly Muslim and has Waza National Park where there are lions. Here's to you, Simba.
You just got to roll with it.
Last weekend was one for the books. It started Friday morning with our last French class. I love my French prof, Candice and she is sincerely one of the best teachers I’ve ever had, but its nice to have my Thursday and Friday mornings free to explore the city or cook with my host Mom. Anyways, in honor of the occasion, the French professors (terribly) organized this plan for us to cook a Cameroonian meal. I’m not exactly sure what they were thinking -- initially plans involved us killing a chicken, preparing dishes that take more than a day to put together, and cooking in strangers homes but we modified so that we just cooked in the apt. and prepared fish instead of slaughtering chickens. Highlight here was scaling, gutting, and cutting the fish. I’m proud to say I’m not squeamish and I’m looking forward to the day when I can use this new “skill” in the states. Felt like I was Bear Grills (Grylls?).
Then on Saturday, I picked up a dress Sarah’s host mom made for me and it is without a doubt the coolest thing I will ever own, even beating out my Quebec sweatshirt. It’s that great. It is a strapless dress and the fabric is a scene of the African landscape filled with lions, hippos, giraffes, rhinos. I definitely could keep writing about the dress, but that is 1. boring 2. superficial so I will stop here.
After picking up The Dress, Grace’s host Dad, Papa Martin, brought us out on...well, I don’t really have words for it...but it was nothing less than a tour of the city. First he brought us to this restaurant where we had the best salads. I use to hate salads, but now that I am thousands of miles away from pizza and buffalo fingers, salads are quickly becoming my meal of choice. Clear example of the positive benefits of study abroad. Then, he brought us around to his friends homes where we would visit for no more than ten minutes while Papa Martin said a quick hello. This is very Cameroonian to just stop in and say hi without much ado. The last home we went to was his elder brother which was incredibly different than any home I have seen yet in Yaounde. We were in the city, but after following a steep dirt road, it felt like we were in the village and the houses were made with wood with tin roofs and dirt floors -- a far cry from the cement and tiled homes of our host families. The family was so happy to see Papa Martin and with good reason. He is a well to-do doctor but his personality is that of a lovable five year old -- jumping up stairs one foot at a time and teasing everyone. He also adores Grace and when a men shouted “Madame!” at Grace, he shouted back “Pas Madame! C’est ma fille!” (Not madame, it’s my daughter!).
Finally, Papa Martin brought us to a “cow market.” These cows are not your pretty black & white diary cows, but look more like what I pictured ox to look like. Of course, I have no idea what the difference is between cattle/cow/ox so this simply me projecting my city-girl perception...But it was unreal to see these hundreds of cows just roaming a hill in the center of the city. Yaounde never ceases to surprise.
Then on Saturday, I picked up a dress Sarah’s host mom made for me and it is without a doubt the coolest thing I will ever own, even beating out my Quebec sweatshirt. It’s that great. It is a strapless dress and the fabric is a scene of the African landscape filled with lions, hippos, giraffes, rhinos. I definitely could keep writing about the dress, but that is 1. boring 2. superficial so I will stop here.
After picking up The Dress, Grace’s host Dad, Papa Martin, brought us out on...well, I don’t really have words for it...but it was nothing less than a tour of the city. First he brought us to this restaurant where we had the best salads. I use to hate salads, but now that I am thousands of miles away from pizza and buffalo fingers, salads are quickly becoming my meal of choice. Clear example of the positive benefits of study abroad. Then, he brought us around to his friends homes where we would visit for no more than ten minutes while Papa Martin said a quick hello. This is very Cameroonian to just stop in and say hi without much ado. The last home we went to was his elder brother which was incredibly different than any home I have seen yet in Yaounde. We were in the city, but after following a steep dirt road, it felt like we were in the village and the houses were made with wood with tin roofs and dirt floors -- a far cry from the cement and tiled homes of our host families. The family was so happy to see Papa Martin and with good reason. He is a well to-do doctor but his personality is that of a lovable five year old -- jumping up stairs one foot at a time and teasing everyone. He also adores Grace and when a men shouted “Madame!” at Grace, he shouted back “Pas Madame! C’est ma fille!” (Not madame, it’s my daughter!).
Finally, Papa Martin brought us to a “cow market.” These cows are not your pretty black & white diary cows, but look more like what I pictured ox to look like. Of course, I have no idea what the difference is between cattle/cow/ox so this simply me projecting my city-girl perception...But it was unreal to see these hundreds of cows just roaming a hill in the center of the city. Yaounde never ceases to surprise.
Briq
For my Creative Writing course, we take a field trip each week to a neighborhood/business/personality in Yaoundé and then write a reflection on the experience. This is mine from Briq, the Muslim neighborhood. I've been to Briq countless time and it is by far my favorite place in Yaounde -- culturally its a world apart from the rest of the city and has the best food & fabric to be found. I’m not pretending this is good writing, but its a quickly written blog post!
When I think of Briciterie, I imagine a silent film. The silence may be deafening, but it only makes the movie better and focuses the audience not on endless babble, but rather on the magnificent scene before you. Or maybe, Briciterie is more like a dream where the sounds and shouts never resonate and only come out sounding like whispers.
As I wander the dusty red streets, the quiet hangs in the air and unlike the rest of Yaoundé which feels as if it is in revolt with the honks of the taxis, the catcalls, and the shouts of a good bargain, Briciterie feels like a pious older sister who is content to merely observe and knows full well the merits of restraint. Here, I can walk the streets undisturbed, able to freely step in and out of shops without explaining why I won't buy and instead focus on the colors -- the rust red blood of the slaughtered cow, the faded blue signs for kossam, the pale yellow of the Mosque tiles. From the storefront, fabric hangs in the air forming a fantastic swirl of purples and greens, yellows and reds, and orange and blues that dares not to move in the heavy, still heat.
Turning the corner, suddenly smoke fills the air and my eyes begin to burn as we head towards the soya stands. On the grill, laying out on the brown paper are the countless sticks of soya piled next to a delicate pyramid of peppers and spices. Nearby a woman patiently sells kossam, doling out the paper cups of milk as she sits under her umbrella, avoiding the blistering heat.
And then finally, there is the children. The boys dressed in the traditional agbada and girls covered in headscarves who from the street corners and storefront stare out at us with a solemn look in their eyes.
When I think of Briciterie, I imagine a silent film. The silence may be deafening, but it only makes the movie better and focuses the audience not on endless babble, but rather on the magnificent scene before you. Or maybe, Briciterie is more like a dream where the sounds and shouts never resonate and only come out sounding like whispers.
As I wander the dusty red streets, the quiet hangs in the air and unlike the rest of Yaoundé which feels as if it is in revolt with the honks of the taxis, the catcalls, and the shouts of a good bargain, Briciterie feels like a pious older sister who is content to merely observe and knows full well the merits of restraint. Here, I can walk the streets undisturbed, able to freely step in and out of shops without explaining why I won't buy and instead focus on the colors -- the rust red blood of the slaughtered cow, the faded blue signs for kossam, the pale yellow of the Mosque tiles. From the storefront, fabric hangs in the air forming a fantastic swirl of purples and greens, yellows and reds, and orange and blues that dares not to move in the heavy, still heat.
Turning the corner, suddenly smoke fills the air and my eyes begin to burn as we head towards the soya stands. On the grill, laying out on the brown paper are the countless sticks of soya piled next to a delicate pyramid of peppers and spices. Nearby a woman patiently sells kossam, doling out the paper cups of milk as she sits under her umbrella, avoiding the blistering heat.
And then finally, there is the children. The boys dressed in the traditional agbada and girls covered in headscarves who from the street corners and storefront stare out at us with a solemn look in their eyes.
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