Countries are not nations, nations are not states. I’m
feeling more and more lucky to be in “Africa in Miniature”, especially as
someone who had previously never been or wanted to go to Africa, as it really
lives up to its name. The regions of this country are diverse beyond belief and
the cultures stand in sharp contrast to each other. Though the state is
Cameroon, the nations change from village to village and the countries change
from region to region. There is no typical Cameroonian landscape and there are
not typical Cameroonian people. Nothing taught me more about this than the
recent two week trip we took to Mbengwi.
After what I could only describe as a “cultural field day”
where we used our French in different pretend scenarios, my fellow Anglophone
volunteers and I loaded our stuff onto a junky bus and began a two day voyage
to the Northwest. For two weeks we would be training at a fish farming station in
the village of Ku, located in the small city of Mbengwi. The trip was long and
cramped but the wind in my face made it all worth it. Sweet white Jesus do I
miss fans.
After what felt like 20 gendarme road blocks, being
desperately hounded to buy oranges and bananas at each one, and our bus hitting
a moto, we reached our hotel for the evening. It had hot water. I wish I could
tell you more about it but all memories of the evening have been superseded by
the shower I took. Also the only thing I can remember about the shower is that
it was hot. The tears of joy streaming down my face were washed away by the
liquid warmth. I drank some beer,
watched some Vikings, and went to bed.
We loaded back up, drove for three hours, and arrived at the
frat house where we would be staying. We were greeted by an amazing PCV who
became our facilitator during our stay there. We drank the white mimbo (palm
wine), ate dinner, and passed out. The next day we woke up, got shifted into groups,
and started all our farm chores: gardens, fish, and pigs. The station itself is
pretty cool, it was started by the Cameroonian government and the Peace Corps
in the 70s to produce fingerlings to sell to farmers and act as a training
environment for local farmers to learn about fish farming, animal husbandry,
and farming techniques. It’s in pretty bad shape now but that just made for
more intensive training. The system they have going now is anything but
integrated; the pig shit goes in the pond for nutrients and that’s about it. We
all developed plans for improving the system at the end of our stay.
The garden I made was bomb, all of ours were. Starting from
overgrown fields of weeds and hacking them down with machetes we made beautiful
beds for cowpeas and sweet potatoes (I hate sweet potatoes but whatever). The
fish were easy to feed but were the worst of the chores due to the shaping and
dredging of an old fish pond. Pigs were the easiest and the most fun.
More about the Northwest though. The temperature is so much
better due to elevation, the mountain scenery is beautiful, English (if you
want to call it that) is spoken, and the people are incredibly friendly. You do
have to deal with kids trailing behind you singing “whiteman whiteman whiteman”
but I got used to it after a while. I’d rather be called whiteman any day over “le
blanche”. The people of the South are so stoic, it’s hard to find a smile shot
your way, but everyone loves greeting each other in the Northwest. The
disposition is the main difference. Our groundskeeper was a real amazing
person, and the mama that was our landlady was one of the most animated people
I have ever met. She taught me a lot of Meta, the local language and the name
of the tribe in the area. The place I’ll be living for the next two years is
extremely close by and populated by the same people so I was happy to learn all
that I could. It was difficult to come back to the South after the amazing time
we had. I know my host family was happy to see me but I can’t wait to move out,
end this training, and start working and living in a place of my own.
We met plenty of other volunteers in the Northwest, a real
good group of people. My post mate is a great dude and got me excited for
what’s to come, even told me a bit about the house I’ll be staying in. I’ll be
living in the palm wine capital of the world, for better or for worse, and
every 8th day we host the second largest market in the Northwest. We
all took a hike up a pretty sizeable mountain. I took plenty of pictures but
Nikon is a foolish company and has their own micro-micro USB cords so I can’t
transfer them to my computer. So that sucks for you guys because the scenery
was fantastic.
The second week culminated with a pig roast. I killed the
pig. By kill the pig I mean I punctured its throat with a dull machete and then
an old-timer took the blade from me and started sawing at its aorta. It was
pretty brutal but I’m glad I got to experience it since I eat so much pork. The
process could have been a lot cleaner and a lot quicker. The machismo in this
country is palpable and everybody thinks his way is the best. The slaughter has
to be drawn out so everyone gets the chance to show how badass and skillful they
are. I just wanted it over as fast as possible, it took a while to bleed out
and die. Then the real work started.
We shaved him with boiling water and dull knives, hauled him
up to the house in a wheel barrel and rubbed him down with salt. The next
morning was hell on earth with the size of the fire we made. We made a
makeshift oven of cinderblocks and corrugated metal and slow roasted him until
the meat was falling off the bone. We had all of our trainers and new friends
over for dinner and damn was it good. His Royal Highness the Fon of Ku even
showed up.
We met the Fon three times during the course of our stay
which I guess is testament to how much he enjoyed our company. The first time
was during the International Day of the Girl Child, we had an introduction
ceremony, drank mimbo, and sat in awkwardness for a bit before seeing the
traditional dancing that was planned for that afternoon. Three days later he
came to our house for dinner, complete with more mimbo and more awkwardness. He
was pretty relaxed by the time of the pig roast so it was a much more casual
affair. I don’t mean to depict the Fon as a strange dude; there is just a lot
of pomp and tradition surrounding him. Never turn your back to him, wait until
he’s seated then clap three times before sitting down, politely avert your
eyes, and never cross your legs. All in all he was friendly; a student of
history and an Arsenal man who likes to play table tennis. It was good to share
a table with royalty.
We left the day after the roast, stayed at a less nice hotel
that didn’t have hot water (but did have a fan), and made the long trip back to
the jungles of the South were we’ve been for a week now. I’m back to speaking
French and getting sick of training, but I can see the light at the end of the
tunnel and boy does it look good. I write this during my lunch break; about to
go to French class and then weed my garden so the Ambassador will have
something pretty to look at when he comes to check on our progress on Sunday.
He’s curious as to our thoughts on how technology is affecting Cameroon and
probably to brief us a bit on the troops that were just sent to help with Boko
Haram in the North. That will be great, I like the Ambassador, he’s a good guy,
but it would also be nice to have a day off. Oh well, this is Africa.
I’m sorry about the no pictures. I’ll find a way to get
around that. But thanks so much for reading! I’ll try and post more regularly. Everyone
is missed, all my love.
PS: I’ve gone from speaking no French to being placed in the
Intermediate High category. That’s some pretty cool news to report but I don’t
know where I would have fit it in to this post. Too bad I’m going to lose it all
again when I get to the Northwest.
