Bury the Foot

My address: BP 111, Ngaoundere, Cameroon. It can only accept letters, not boxes for such are seen as prize booty by mysterious Post Office looters.

And here I sit after a safe and timely arrival in Ngaoundere, Cameroon, my home for the next academic year. I sit upon the solitary hillocks of the compound, smack dab in the center, unit number 39 in the aptly named Chateau.

Look, here is my own little moat; during the intense rains (two or three a day and several throughout the night) it floods and fills with crocodiles which scare off those who would come and seek to share my bed. Thank Goodness!

But perhaps I ought to back track a

moment or two in order to make sure that everyone is on the correct train-namely the one leaving Yaounde at seven o clock.

When last we parted ways, dear reader, I had not yet met many of the people who would become my daily interlocutors, nor have I met those who will become my most oft seen friends, my students. Well to dinner I did go with Willy, David, and Debra. What an important meal and the restaurant had not the slightest idea the service it was performing. For David is on the board of Global Health Ministries, Debra is a key asset in CAR (central African republic) while Willy is the Regional Representative of all--along with his wife whom we shall soon meet. And as we sat around ordering our food, a variety of local cameroonian special Ndole avec viande et poisson-a dish of bitter greens mixed with meat or fish-and the fly-paper consistency Manioc (also goes by the name Cassaba and Tapioca) and some coca-which really tastes nothing like coke despite being in the bottle saying it is such. I wonder if this is on account of the lack of high fructose corn syrup or some other phenomenon and there was fried fish and rice and spicy sauce, suddenly in strides a man resplendent in his purple outfit. It was the principal of the school again, Pastor Jean Marcell Hamadiko, my new boss. We proceeded through a lovely dinner conducted in various forms of pidgin English and French tout ensemble nous avons un vocabulaire complet. After dinner Willy, David, and I moseyed our way in the ELCA mobile back to his home and small siestas were taken before Willy fetched me to head to the train station.

Interesting fact about the train that departs from yaounde to go north, it usually goes at six, but during Ramadan it waits to leave until seven in order to give the muslims time to eat. Principal Hamadiko met me and together we journeyed forth. When it came time to wait in the lounge before boarding the train, he remarked how clever it was or me to have carried a book along for just such waits. Well it was now time to bring forth the powers of amazement that are at my fingertips and I proceed to blast new synaptic understanding of kindness and wowzeration his way for I brought from forth my shoulder bag a copy of Le Soir, the Belgian newspaper that I had selected on the plane in order to bury my nose behind something while trying to distract myself form the spaniard's beauty. Shortly thereafter we boarded the train which was remarkable only for the fact that the rooms were terribly small. I quickly monkeyed my way to the top bunk and shoved my sac a dos to the foot of the bed and threw my feet upon it. Then I began to read. All went well until the train began to move. Suddenly the most raucous of raucousness boomed through the loudspeaker attached to the ceiling. Discombobulated, I meandered in my mind until settling down on the wise decision to try to sleep. I closed my book, Cloud Atlas, popped in my earplugs and drew down my sleeping mask. Ahh, I had forgotten about the fluorescent light. Arrghh indeed for it was not going out. I naturally assumed that I was powerless against these invasions of my senses since my traveling companion did nothing to turn either off but simply began to snooze, and since it did not look like I was going to develop synesthetic responses I knew it would be a frustrating night. Well out of a midnight slumber I arose and saw a white light to my corner I reached out and whacked it. I felt a jostle; I had discovered a dial and clasping it like Tennyson's eagle, despite the fact that said eagle fell like a thunderbolt, I twisted. The radio vanished. Relief. And I slept. Soon Morpheus lifted his sandbag from off my eyes again and Iris brought another vision to me. This was of a white square. Having had luck thus far with thwacking things, I let loose like Casey at the bat. But unlike he, I did not strike out--an obvious advantage to not being mighty--for I struck the light. Relief. And then came morning at which point I discovered that neither control was white but neither were they labeled. I slid from out the top bunk and roamed the narrow corridor looking out the window as the green savanah whisked by like Sam-I-Am whisking his favorite breakfast.

We were met at the airport by one who will doubtless be a daily interlocuter if not lifesaver, Phil Nelson. The son of missionaries, he began living in Cameroon at the age of five and has served in the CAR and Cameroon for most of his life. He whips between English and French and at least two native languages, Biya and Fulfulde, all while grinning his way merrily between jokes and steering yet another ELCA mobile. Seriously these things come in fleets. He brought us back to the compound and I moved into my Chateau. Then a rapid visit to the market wherein I purchased eggs, rice, noodles, lentils, and tinned tomatoes. I am discouraged from eating fresh vegetables for a little while until my belly adjusts. Fascinating aspect of life here on the compound are the number of people rushing around with huge baskets of fruit and vegetables stuck atop their heads.the carrots, ahh so orange; the bananas; ahh so small. They are all quite a sight. The markets were chaotic but make sense in the way that chaos often seems to. What is more there is great conservation of energy. When we walked into the supermarche, the woman turned on the lights and when we left she switched them off. Upon returning, I ate a bloody lunch at Phil's where we were joined by the endlessly kind Ann, Willy is her husband. She dashes hither and yon with opinions about everything and an encyclopedic knowledge of who's who in Cameroon, America, and probably Antarctica--though I have yet to ask about that. I say bloody with respect to the meal because it was ribs cut from the side of a wild pig that Phil had shot and was cooked in tomato broth. We also had a stewed millet dish and lovely pineapple for dessert. After a few hours of palaver concerning the history of the mission (begun in 1923) and some housekeeping issues, in which another young volunteer Mia joined us, we parted ways. Mia hails from the great state of Minnesota and she attended Grinnell, that most exciting of Iowan schools. Further she is volunteering as a palliative care-giver and when she returns will get her masters in Public Health. Quite a foursome we made; it made me wish I'd brought my whisk deck. But before we parted ways, Phil taught me the mighty fine aphorism "be sure to bury the foot." It has to do with doing a job right and thoroughly and goodness it can be generally applied out here in Cameroon. Of course the aphorism has a morbid twist to it; but one thing that I quickly realized is that humor here needs a good dose of the macabre; so I am pulling out all of my best Beetlejuice material. That night we all went out for a dinner; the last before Anne leaves this evening (the 26th) on the night train. That is she will leave if the tracks are cleared. For you see, the freight train frequently derails and as a result the passenger train is often delayed. Of course this does not happen to me; for as those of you who have followed my blogs in the past know, St. Christopher often looks over this particularly curly haired traveler. Speaking of curly hair, I have far and away the longest hair of any male in Cameroon. Now if only I can work on my beard.

One neat thing that happened on the 26th is that Anne took me up and allowed me to follow her far and wide to meet everyone that is important. And a great many hands were shaken. Strange thing about hand shaking; no one does it the same. Some offer a hand limply and I feel it crushing beneath my Paul Bunyon like ability; others pull out their best Pippi Longstocking and I find myself bending beneath their will; still others offer a forearm if the hand is particularly dirty. And there is a whole lot of hand shaking. Here is a standard introduction in translation:

-I'm Christian

-Nice to meet you

(shake hands)

-I'm the new English teacher at the College Protestante

-Very Very pleased to meet you

(shake hands again with added sincerity)

--conversation--

-so long

-until next time

(shake hands)

I'll be sorry to see Anne leave as she has been a super swell help. And somehow Phil, Mia, and I must find enough tissues to staunch the flow of tears we will let forth at her departure; but at least if I aim mine into the moat, I can feed the crocodiles.