The Legacy of a Godmother

Allow me to commence this present post with an apology for what shall most probably be the most egregious example of my inability to formate and spell check. For you see, I shall be doing all from my iPad. This is not, let me state lest mine action be misconstrued, an attempt at honoring the late Steve Jobs, but rather it is out of necessity. My computer, you see, has perished from an epidemic that razed all the computers of Cameroon. It is likely that I shall salvage it. Indeed, I have handed my computer over to a graduate of Augustans college, and is great Viking merely nodded when he saw the problem and asked to see my flash drive. How, I expressed in wonderment, did he know I had such. He said simply that every computer in Cameroon feasts upon the host that is the USB drive. And. So, when once upon a time I carried my exam to school in my flash drive I took from that experience a way for my computer to become most ill. From here on, I shall email myself files, if indeed there is a from here on. I shall wait to make any indicative statements till the computer be settled upon my desk once more.

Some might express surprise that I have a computer and an iPad along. Is such not technological overkill? I want to emphasize that the iPad is far from a word processor and for the length of my communiques, much less the expose on Blake from a few weeks back or the intense brainstorms toward a dissertation that I write, I require the rapidity that a keyboard encourages. Further, the iPad rejects several online features like flash, which I use on some sites from which I steal text book materials and from which I must acces ceretsin sites within which I download PDFs.

Now this has been quite a week, and if my computer had not broken you would know none of the reasons why for I had a much different experience planned for ye readers of integrity. But instead I present you the wonder of the last weeks of the last time I shall experience October whilst in my twenty-fifth year.

My mother, the pastor Erika, was once a pastor of a paradise called Roseni. Here a small child frolicked through cornfields, stole combine rides from noble Norwegian farmers named Don, lost himself in a system of culverts and hunted crawdads. And when barbed wire cut his thigh, a bandaged poultice from torn maple leaves served to staunch the blood. Why, you may ask, to I delve into the depths of such memory? After all, I did not begin this series of blogs with a comment on the state of my candle before falling asleep (apologies for the recondite Proust reference). It is because I have had recourse to a lesson delivered to me in those early days of misted memory. One of my marvelous godmothers is a beautiful woman named Janette, and among her many skills is the ability to squarsh with her foot bared to the elements any cricket that might come her way. I have exaggerated memories of her tripping the light fantastic through our garage and across thousands of insect carapaces, though in reality I am sure I only saw her perform this feat once.

Well, here in Cameroon, in preparation for the dry season, I was allowed a rare glimpse into a phenomenon of crickets. Sunday night out of nowhere one leapt into my chateau. But these are not our darling black small crickets that an intrepid children's literary journal taked for its name. No, these are two inch flying beasts and they coated the floor within moments. They search water, you see, and every morning the ground is littered with the desiccated corpses of those who failed in their quest. Now that these bugs would come was a closely guarded secret from Phil and one that caused much surprise, I will admit. However, I was well prepared for I had fortified myself with the legacy of my godmother and once an hour I sally forth like George of the red cross across the battlefield of my concrete floor and percuss the night with the splintering of their backs and in the morning sweep them out the front door where they remain about an hour before they are born away to the happy mastication of ants.

That made me seem rather bloodthirsty, didn't it. But you must understand that these crickets interrupt my evening readings of Shakespeare, the complete works of whom I am currently completing.

On Saturday I also had a nice first for the year, I got a haircut. My last was in Peru last christmas while dancing south from the beacher's hedonism of Huanchachou. I decided to do so in the midst of severe abdominal cramping. (readers less inclined toward knowing my digestive awesomeness might want to skip a few paragraphs). I had been since thursday rather constipated. I, and I have since learned better, thought that the best way to solve this problem was to eat some fruits to get things working again. Consequently I bought about 1,000 francs worth of bananas. Now this provided me with about sixteen bananas and I ate them over two days. It turns out that bananas have a rather opposite effect from the laxative and I found myself greatly discomfited. I went to a pharmacy and purchased some laxatives, though I don't think they really worked, I took up daily Constitutionals of an hour and ate a raw potato and carrot every day. Still nothing happened. Friday, going out for our evening meal at he coffee shop, I ordered Ndole, a dish rather similar to the horta of Greece, and a few hours later found myself splendidly emptied. But, let me warn any yet again, bananas are not a purgative.

Ahh, but I was talking about a haircut before I turned from the hirsute to the scatologic. It was easy enough as there are little huts every few hundred yards with young men eager to couper les cheveux. All they seem to need is a mirror, an electric razor, and a chair. After all, most men here basically shave their heads and keep their scalps as close to the air as possible. And so into one of these wind unresistant huts and got a haircut for only five hundred francs (a bit over a dollar). He did it all with an electric razor too. I shall try and post a picture next week.

I thought that some would notice, but the entirety of Ngaoundere seemed to stand up and renew their subscriptions to GQ. The lady from whom I purhcase tomatoes said I was now tres beau. From the avocado lady I heard that I was well improved. From Phil I was more distinguished, but the greatest joy came from my students. In the three classes I went into that Monday I received three standing ovations, three iterated shouts of excellent, bien, finalement, hoots and hollers, and from one class a much appreciated "bonjour Jonas brother". it was a bit over the top, and I did not have enough on the top to protect myself!

Of course to regain some status as an eccentric, I began planning and th perfect moment arose Thursday morn when I spotted a small flower in a cranny wall (reference to Tennyson). I plucked it and placed it behind my ear, well, ne'er have my students been so distracted and upset my their feminized teacher. They could not sit still till I removed it, and once I did so I leaped into recitations of Romantic poetry to try and bash poetically through this stigma of difference that is so horrifying to all. It was crushingly disappointing.

Friday, are your tired eyes releived they near the end?

out of nowhere this week we were informed by the Cameroonian secretary of pedagogical bilingualism that the English club would report to the radio station 102.5 for a program that would be recorded and then aired on saturday afternoon. The english club gathered three timed in preparation and put together a truly admirable program involving two discussions of cholera, a thoughtful essay on bilingualism, and several poetic readings. Interspersed were songs sung en masse. We came to the station and all was going well. Until, that is, Madame secretary informed me that though the whole program would be in English, she would ask me my questions in French and expect answers similarly. Well, thank goodness for the warning, at last I managed to convince her to let me know the questions before hand so that I might deploy my limited vocabulary in the best way possible. Turns out one of those questions was how I was using the "ten minute bilingual game" in my class. Ha, I have nothing but contempt for the bilingual game and no one has yet to use it. But we were trapped in this radio station, forced to submit to the indomitable will of an educational government that turns out drones and elects the same man despite the fact that the rest of the world moves forward. I was bound and enchained myself to the yoke if mendacity that we all must endure and like yet another ox I pulled forward propaganda.

Oui, Madame, j'ai trouver beaucoup les choses interessants avec cet program. Il y a plusiuers les elevees qui aiment le jeu. Le plus reussi activite, que j'ai trouver, etait un discussion philosophique sur le role du traduire culturel, literaire, et personnel.

Pardon the spelling, but this program insists on auto correcting and does so even when forbid it. But for the most part, especially errors of grammar, I can be blamed.

Anyway, I spoke for about four minute. Some of what I said was vraiment, namely the fact that my students think it is funny when try to speak French for more than merely a quick phrase and also that they applaud me when I create a phrase well.

Upon my return from the station and after shopping, I returned to school to look for my notebook that I seem to have misplaced. Well it was not in my last 4e class, but one student was in the area I wished him a nice weekend and told him to practice the passive voice. He responded, roughly, "please, sir, I don't understand the passive". What a rally cry for a teacher. With a flourish I dashed into the nearest classroom sniffing out a blackboard and calling for chalk. Slinging off my backpack of groceries with one hand I swung my hand to the outsert he'd piece of chalk with the other and Woochie and I proceeded to have a roaring grammar lesson for about twenty minutes. At the end, when he had such a grasp on the passive voice that he was no longer eating beans but the beans were eaten by him, I pushed the tension from my shoulders and turned around to a small crowd of about seven others who had gathered for the lessons, three of whom were taking notes, and none of whom were my students.

Teacher Inservice

It has happened, in the past, in the deep past of the duration of which my time here in Cameroon has yet elapsed, that I have attended meetings that were such an enormous waste of time that I felt my brain atrophy in an attempt to cope. Such an adaptive mechanism, while useful for survival, has rather detrimental effects with respect to socialization and personal development. It was with this experience behind me that I learned, on Tuesday, that there would be an inservice on Wednesday. Only here is how the conversation actually progressed:

I happen to be up in the English lab preparing for class. M. Oliver, with whom I recently went to lecture at his other school, comes in and announces, "tomorrow we have a meeting, I don't know when I got the letter on the fourteenth. I could not tell you because you have no cell phone."

Of course, he could have told me when we talked on Monday, or even when I spent all afternoon of the fourteenth with him, but rather it is the fault of mine for not having a cell phone. As though such reasoning is any reason at all. It is glorious to not have a phone. If I wanted to actually contact anyone I might feel differently, but as the person I usually most want to talk to is myself, there is no need for a phone. At receiving this piece of news, I had to at once replan my day. I could still have the lesson plan, but I needed to revise my idea for Wednesday and come up with some homework. This I did, and was pleased at my students' regret that I would not be in class Wednesday.

Part of the problem had now been solved. I still, though, had no idea where this mysterious meeting was going to be. I asked Oliver when he was going to go, and he declared sometime after his courses "after all, these things never start on time, it is Africa." I wanted to be there at the start time of eight, though. Well at last I found Rev. Beson who was going at 8.30. Since this was the earliest I could find, we went. And would you believe it, the meeting had already started! This is the first time since getting to Cameroon that something started on time. I knew at once that I was in for a treat. And further, this was no run-of-the mill annual meeting, it was a full-fledged Pedagogy seminar. From 8.45 until 2 we had solid discussion and lectures. There were no breaks for the bathroom and no food or drinks provided. The latter point proved far the most contentious as all seemed to think we had been treated unfairly. But, I asked sweetly, if this is the yearly affair that you all know so well, would you not expect there to be no food or drink and thus plan accordingly?

There were three speakers. The first was a consummate teacher of Grammar who had a whole system worked out for teaching: Start by introducing the lesson, then make a presentation, then practice the presented "focus" of the day, and then evaluate. Seems pretty self-explanatory, but oophta it caused some problems. I was pleased that most of what he was saying fit nicely into the patterns I have been developing through my trial and experience. He then broke us down into groups and gave us different assignments. Our small group was to analyze a procedure for "presenting: has been...-ing...for..." and to use the imaginary situation that "a woman starts waiting for a bus at four o'clock. At five o'clock the bus comes. She's been waiting for an hour." We then had the lesson plan and had to put them in the correct order. Now it could just be that I am brilliant, but all the sentences had the keyword that the presenter had just focused on himself. Thus it was a simple matter of lining them up. But woah, my horses skidded to a halt. Another member of the group wanted to rewrite the sentences because his pedagogy was different. Hardly the way to show mastery of a topic, especially when his way would create mass confusion. And so I was in the group that was scolded for not being able to attend to a simple task. I hate group work.

1- The teacher says "she's been waiting for an hour" and asks the class to repeat it.

2- The teacher explains how the structure is formed.

3- The teacher writes the sentence on the board: She's been waiting for an hour.

4- The teacher gives other situations and examples: Another person arrived at 4.30. He's been waiting for half an hour. etc.

5- The teacher asks the class to copy the sentence.

6- The teacher asks individual students to repeat the sentence.

How did you do? (correct order: 3, 1, 6, 4, 2, 5)

One of the most interesting discussions arose from the first question wherein the group had to analyze four different methods of making presentations about comparisons. In the first, the teacher calls two students to the front of the room. In the second she draws lines on the board. In the third, she talks about random buildings in town (post office is bigger than bank) and in the fourth she draws two pictures on the board rather than lines.

Now this is exactly what I am interested in because it concerns controlling the class. The other teachers, the majority, wanted to call students to the front. I rose in grand defiance. This offers an opportunity for disruption, the other students will wonder why they were not called and think that by raising their voice they shall be chosen "next." Another said this would not happen if I could control my class (valid), but I responded that no matter what you ask the students to compare, they will make their own. Thus you are asking for students to be mocked. Perhaps the short kid you chose is seriously self-conscious about his height. Perhaps you pick a Muslim by accident and ask an offensive question. Perhaps you pick a child with long hair who is also very fat. You say this one has longer hair than that, but everyone is thinking "this one is fatter than that...Mary is fat...hahaha." I won the day and argued that the best is putting men on the board with cartoonishly large features. This is my own strategy, anyway. But since this is workshopping, it was productive to have to defend my own strategies.

The second talk concerned reading comprehension. (are you still reading? is this terribly dull for you?, o reader? next week will be more voyeuristically thrilling). This was really great because I have no idea how to do it. Unfortunately the lady with her loud yellow dress and voice (a bit of zeugma there) was quite distracting. She stood while she screamed with her belly in my nose and I rose to move when she turned her back. She completed her circle and blinked owlishly in surprise, for the head of curly hair that was formerly where the button of her belly would be had vanished.

The main points here, that I will definitely adopt, are to generate interest by having the students speak among themselves about the subject of the approaching reading. Thus, if the reading is on a birthday party, have them talk about that. Then generate a list of likely vocabulary. Then provide very simple guiding questions on the board. Following this, the learner (never student!) should read silently. And then comes a more detailed set of questions (drawing conclusions, explaining reasons, etc) and finally ask for a brief summary.

Really helpful, I think.

And after this came the business aspect of the whole affair and was to me the most frustrating, because much of my confusion could have been clarified if I had known upon my first day the information that this man related.

In every classroom, there is a blue book. I had no idea what this mysterious blue book was for for the first four weeks of school. Every once in a while, though, a student would gesture to it and in turn I would open it and nod sagely. But it turns out that this book is then sent on to the government regional pedagogy committee who reviews the various lessons and makes mysterious decisions. Now, if only I had known this at the beginning of the year. Everything would be so organized. Instead of metamorphizing into the proverbial beheaded chicken, I'd have moved fluidly through my various forms and functions of being an English teacher. But Thursday and today I made awesome entries into the blue book. I wrote the date, the time of the class, the objective, the lesson plan, and my thoughts on its success. I also noted what did not work. I also noted the homework and when it was due.

But from this information about technical aspects, I received the most astonishing piece of world-shattering news. The system here has no interest in even half the students passing. There was a question about entering grades. The lecturer wrote on the board the various levels of scores (scores here are out of 20 not 100). And it was as follows:

less than 7.5

betwen 7.5 and 8.5

between 8.5 and 10

greater than 10

So for the past weeks when I have lamented the lamentable scores of my students and been greeted with their open acclamation at what I considered egregious marks, they were actually celebrating because in some perverse way they had done well for getting close to fifty percent.

Now I must be missing something, I though, but then I entered my mid-trimester grades in the computer system. This system writes comments at the end of the line. Here is one score

9.5/20 bien assez [good enough]

a score of 19 gets an excellent, but 15 gets a very good.

And then 6.5 weak

4.5 very weak.

And henceforth I shall enter the class armed with the knowledge that I have insane standards.

Island Ho

Here is a road that does not actually exist, yet Phil found a path to drive along and soon he led us to the following picture.

Wow, what a sight. It was really overwhelmingly beautiful.
Here is an island that is not visible from shore, but once it rains, the rain falls in such a way that it juts out. On Sunday we canoed over. Look at the bird nests. These birds are crazy loud. The males build the nests to woo women birds. When these lady birds (no not the wife of a former President) show up they can either accept the domicile or ask that the man do better...elsewise she will find a different carpenter.

Guava tree. Tasty. Just split it open and suck; though the seeds kind-of hurt the teeth. Phil eats the skin, but I am not that manly.

Here we are approaching the island. See what I mean about it being hard to make out?

Even harder to make out the island here. Nice prow, eh?

The deadening of a tin roof

7,302. That is how many words I wrote yesterday on William Blake and read today in a lecture entitled "What is so fearful about Blake's Symmetry." And why I did that will just have to wait.

Many noticed a delay in posting last week and I did not state why it occurred when I did return at the end of the weekend. Did you read closely? Then you saw that I returned! (I am writing now as I speak when teaching my students reading comprehension strategies). Want some more? When the question asks who, it is best if you respond with a person. What will usually be a thing. Whenever you see Why, ask yourself if it is necessary to use because in the answer. And Whither means place to which. Actually, I do not teach this one, nor do I teach whence. Alas. I say again Alas. I can barely succeed in Where being a place. I don’t know how many times I have heard “Where is ColPro” la solution: Hannah Montana (actually that was a mean-spirited pastiche of the actual answers). Speaking of Hannah Montana, take a look at this picture. Now it is not here, it is me—is it not ever so flattering? I include it under a mention of Hannah Montana because all the students want me to talk about her and so thinking that I would humor them during one exercise of drawing on the board I named the caricature Hannah Montana. OOOOPH-TA what a revolt I had. Apparently Hannah Montana has bangs and my girl most definitely did not. Well, now I now better. This was one of the best activities I did, the whole drawing on the board thing. It came as a result of studying for the exam that I administered yesterday and today. I had the students come and draw (some are really extraordinary artists and it is fascinating to watch their different styles that slowly bring forth a picture). I made them include clothing and a food item. Then the class described the different people. After, I wrote the descriptions and had the students draw accordingly. That is how I came to be on the board. And the reason I am sad? It is because I can’t find the monkey. That may seem a non sequitor, but it is not at all. You see this week I taught prepositions and for one of them I included a monkey on a branch. I then asked Abdoul, where is the monkey. Abdoul is a young man who never pays attention. Well, he did not know. Others were eager to help. “The monkey is on the branch.” On to other prepositions, behind, in front of, outside. “Abdoul” I shouted out of nowhere, “Where is the monkey?” Well he got half the answer. Three prepositions later, I again asked. Boy oh boy did he ever know where that monkey was this time. How very satisfying. But then it turned into a great game—much like POINT! Of the first week. Whenever I walked into the class, the students all turned to me to ask where the monkey was. As I left it was to a chorus of where is the monkey, where is the monkey. (for a very funny stand-up comedy scene about monkeys and trees, watch Eddie Izzard for my inspiration: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1sQkEfAdfY

Ahh, but I was distracted with my didacticism. I meant to tell you whither I went on Saturday and whence I returned. The elections were Saturday and Sunday, so Phil wanted to get out of town. Off we went in the Lutheran mobile, Phil, Mia, and myself. After a while of driving and one police inspection, we whirled off the main road and down a ravine. Then up through a creek and across a roadless meadow. But wow, was it ever worth it. There we were at a small cottage next to a lake. We were going camping! And we did, we even slept in a tent. There was no electricity though so we went to bed at 8.30. Now that sure is hard when I usually go to bed at midnight and awake at 6.30. But I can count sheep with the best of them, after all I still want to herd sheep on the slopes of Mt. Ida in the hopes that pretty goddesses will come and ask me to make a decision that will affect the entirety of western literature. We camped and canoed and I sat beside the lake and caught no fish despite having a line with bait in the water.

But I am sure you burn to know (much like a certain Tiger, eh?) about the number heading this post. About four weeks ago, Oliver—the head of English at ColPro—was telling me about a second job he has teaching at a private school. They were working on the poems of Blake. He asked if I liked Blake’s work and I responded positively. The next week, he asked when I would like to give my lecture on Blake’s poems. How out of the blue can one get! But since I am rather starved for academic settings, I agreed. This is, let you know, without having read Blake since my freshman year at Bard when we read The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. But I have The Tiger memorized, since it once seemed like something I ought to do. So I agreed to give a lecture two weeks away. And the time passed and I learned that I would have two hours. Well, I figured it was about time to actually read something. Out came the iPad and down(loaded) came the Songs of Innocence and the Songs of Experience. And with them turned on my PhD candidate mind (actually the mind belongs to an accredited Master, as well at this point). Turns out I have a great deal to say about what I termed, stealing from Blake, his fearful symmetry. I unveiled a series of readings across the doubled poems that showed him deeply antagonistic to the industrial revolution, the hypocritical church, and the privilege of the imagination, and the wisdom of the pre-natal child brought into a world of suffering on account of having to hide ignorance and suffer “mind-forged manacles.” None of this is particularly new, but the way I did it was. I analyzed the deployment of various meters and rhyme schemes. It was tremendously successful, and at the close three of the teachers at Mercy Bilingual School all congratulated me and asked to have a copy of the talk that they could study further. It was a pretty well structured talk as well, opening as it did with an emphasis on the industrial revolution and specifically the change in textiles (which I naturally linked to the Text in Textile). Following this I gave a talk on the literary milieu, with an emphasis on Romanticism. And then onto the talk. It was great fun. I stood and lectured, then would turn and write on the board with such definitions as Metapoetic, Trope, Concatenation, Anapestic heptameter, and so on and so forth. Here is an example of something I said. On the poem Holy Thursday in Songs of Innocence, there is an identically titled poem in Experience. Here is the first stanza:

’Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:

Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow.

Unlike our introductions, these two poems do not at first seem very similar, apart from their titles. The one from Innocence has three stanzas, rhyming aabb in heptameter (seven feet). It is a poem of great solemnity and its long poetic lines mimic the long lines of the children flowing through. Along the lines of this metrical mimesis, we can see that the children advance two by two even as the rhyme scheme advances two by two (aa, bb, etc).

Following this I have a lengthy discussion of the simile, the idea of purification by filth. The whole discussion ends by pointing to the fact that the church forces this pageant on the children in order to elicit pity (i.e. donations) from observers. Thus the children are like the Thames because the Thames connected London to its mercantile empire.

I did similar scenarios with eleven other poems. Afterward, there was supposed to be question and answer, but it was deeply unhelpful because the students just wanted me to answer questions in the little preparation booklet for their Exam that they take (it is an international one like the Bac). But if they had listened to my talk, they would know that I had answered “Explain why Blake uses simple sentence structures.” Or, “Could one say that Blake opposes the Industrial Revolution.” Or “What emphasis does Blake place on prophecy.” All these question I had answered. So, that was too bad. Then the teachers and I went to the headquarters and drank cokes and chewed meat-on-sticks. It was enormously satisfying. One other wondrous moment came as I was reading a particularly passionate section of my paper—on church Hypocrisy—and the skies split open and rain drowned out my ability to talk by striking so hard on the tin roof. I had to wait a while.

comment tu sais

How do y0u know? what a simple little question, yet with it comes a great deal of knowledge about how the questioned thinks. We have begun reading comprehension and so it is necessary to demand of the student who gives an answer that he or she also provide an explanation. After all, if I simply say "give two words that describe Kephna" after we have read a short passage, the words will vary from quotation of one word or a sentence to a great deluge of English cacophony. But once the students realized that I demanded proof of their answers I began only to hear the incessant murmur of those who never participate. It has been a rather good week. I think that the students were shocked at the nadir to which their grades had fallen and decided to give more than their normal percentage of care to the tasks at hand. I was able, as a result of this newfound, and shortly lived, focus to teach the great skill of reading critically. Although it is actually not that critical. We read "I helped my mother when I got home from school and then I did my homework." What is one word to describe Acha, the man to whom the first person personal pronoun refers? Well, on the first day I heard that heis "home from school" he "did her homework" and other such. The next day, after patient teasing out, I began to hear "he is travailleuse" and then I forced the student to actually use the English "he is hardworking" Excellent. And suddenly we were off. "he is helpful, kind, generous" And with the rest of the story explaining that he becomes a doctor I also heard that he is smart and famous and handsome. This last came because their is a picture in the book--although I rather disagree for the fellow is dour faced and shifty-eyed. I hope that we can continue this great advanced study on how we know--although if I am too successful I shall soon be hearing the following dialogue:

Me: "How do you know?

Student: "How can I know when what I do know is that I know nothing."

now there is a pleasant fear to have.

My ma sent me a card and I got it yesterday, the seventh of October. It was sent on September 14th, so that will give you a nice idea of the amount of time letters take. It cost ninety-eight cents to send and provided a great deal of entertainment at the dinner table for me, Mia, and Phil. We go out every Friday to eat and for me to tell all the trials and tribulations and small feats of mastery of my week. The card was particularly nice because it contained a few cut-out comic strips from the Argus Leader including an Agnes in the spirit of Calvin and Hobbes wherein the young child says "Hello, Miss Beckerich...I will study so hard this year that my skull might split from the influx and retention of so much smartness! When and if this happens you could find me dead in a pool of blood, brain meat and fun facts...don't blame yourself for the fiasco."

The comics were tucked behind a postcard of a skiing family in the snow. Wow, snow, that is something I haven't seen for a long time and won't see for a long time.

Should you, dear reader, also like to receive a shout-out in this blog you can elicit it through sending mail to:

Christian Lehmann

BP 111

Ngaoundere

Cameroon

West Africa

and then I will tell everyone about the comics that are sent.

I put together another exam today. This one is very very serious as it is going to actually affect the students' grades. You can try it too:

Name:________________

Class:_________________

Part I: Reading Comprehension. 10 Points

Read the following passage and then answer the questions in complete sentences.

Kepha’s grandmother brought him up and taught him to read and to write. Kepha did well in school, and he won a scholarship to study in France. When he got to France, he was scared because everything was so different. He felt clumsy and was very unhappy. He missed his family. Soon he overcame his fear and made many friends. He began to write stories and poems about his life in Douala. They were very popular, many people read them, and they made Kepha famous. One day he got a phone call from his sister. She said that his grandmother was sick. Kepha returned home to take care of his grandmother.

1) Who brought up Kepha?

2) Why was Kepha scared in France?

3) What two nouns do the underlined pronouns replace?

4) Why did Kepha return home to Douala?

5) What did Kepha do in France that made him famous?

Part II. Grammar. 5 points

Look at the picture and then answer the questions with the correct preposition.

the picture is Van Gogh's "Bedroom at Arles"

1) The chair is _______ the door. [in front of, on, under]

2) The desk is _______ the window. [under, above, behind]

3) The mirror is ________ the towel and the window [under, in front of, between]

4) The bed is _________ the photographs. [under, between, behind]

5) The towel is ________ the wall. [on, next to, above].

Part III. Vocabulary. 5 Points.

Translate the following words.

le poulet:____________________ boire:____________________

le pain:____________________ porter:_______________________

les haricots:____________________ heureux:_____________________

l’œuf:____________________ une chemise:__________________

le demain:____________________ un costume:___________________

And on a last note, I was looking through old examinations that the government sends out to test mastery of English. Here is one section, and it is rather worrisome.

Replace the italicized word(s) with a synonym from the list of words.

1) We did not have to insist much before she agreed. (pressure)

2) The error could be caused by a number of facts. (due to)

3) The incidence of rape goes up in this country every year. (increases)

4) Women do not know what they desire until they are coerced. (wish for)

you can draw your own conclusions from this, I trust.

Government elections tomorrow; do you all have your voting cards?

A walk through Ngaoundere

Here are pictures, don't skip the blog that I posted before this, though it may be on a different page depending on the way you view this blog.

This is the street corner, take the forking path left and follow me... (notice next to the man on the left corner there is an oven and a long thick branch. This is the fuel for the fire, as it burns they just nudge it further in, its pretty cool).

So here is one entrance to the rabbit warren that juts next to the petit marche (which is larger than the grand marche) where I tend to do a great deal of my shopping because it lets me practice French and affords a visual feast and is a 45 minute walk away so I get some weekly exercise.

Welcome to the vegetable market inside the warren. I had no idea it was here, but as soon as I passed the clothing section of the mall and worked my way through the kitchenwear, I ran into the produce section.

This is the street juxtaposing the above pictures. From it you'd never guess that there was an endless magic market. Notice the three ladies with bundles on their heads?

And here is another street, the entrance of the public thoroughfare to the market street.

wow you can buy any knock off shoe you want, I suppose I probably should since my own shoes are always sopping wet. But the dry season will come soon.

Time for more thrilling commentary from me on the obvious pictures. This time...Shirts! I bought one for 1,000 CFA.

Here is a meat market. Isn't it nice that everyone has his own place? Only men seem to deal in meat while women and adolescent boys and girls attend to the produce.

Here is the Arabic marche, inside you can visit all sorts of clothing shops where they will make brightly colored vetements for you. (notice the puddles? it just rained)

Peer closely at this man who is could give Atlas a run for his money.

This women is not content with either a bundle or a baby, she needs both. But she must be tired seeing as she has to rest her hand upon the table.

Here is a nicely dressed women with a baby and an umbrella. It sure is neat how women turtle-shell their offspring.

here is where I my biscuits and lighters for my stove whereon I cook eggs, soups, and hot water for coffee. I have given up on the cheap matches and have resorted to cheap lighters. For only 100 CFA you can get a two inch flame (it is very exciting) and it has a flashlight which is awesomely handy for times like this week when the power goes out.

Action shot. This is one of the more popular gas stations. The marauding motos will whip by for a quick guzzle from the liter jars of gasoline.

A whole lot of bananas. I could probably eat them all, but then I would have potassium poisoning and not be able to teach.

Wherein the Shoes Get Wet

Throughout my schooling, I have never really lost sleep for an assignment, never pulling an all-nighter, never really awakening early than was my want for finishing homework. Nor have I lost sleep on account of concern for an approaching exam either quiz or test. And so it was an entirely new experience for me to find, on Thursday night and well into Friday morning, that I was tossing back and turning forth with a vast restlessness. And I was the one giving the exam. I found myself wondering, if it was too short, if the students would be insulted by its ease, what to do about the ones who weren’t there, if after the first group took it they would swiftly tell their friends what was on it. Then I began to worry that my students were stressing about the exam and that perhaps I should have reassured them that a quiz is only a way for me to gauge where the class as a whole stands. Well, I will sleep soundly from now on, because out of about 110 quizzes only two aced it. The average grade was between 8 and eleven with a shocking number of 0-4.5. Here is the quiz:

Vocabulary, 20 questions, each worth .5 points

Answer a question in the negative with and without a contract, 1 point for each answer

Complete the sentences: Yesterday…Today…Tomorrow… each worth 2 points

Total 20 points.

Not exactly hard especially because on Wednesday, as a class, we reviewed vocabulary through a series of games. On Thursday we reviewed contractions, and we are always doing tense work.

So this has come as rather a striking blow. I really thought that things were going smoothly. Whenever I stroll about the class for the aural part of the class period the students can answer the questions, sort of. I suppose that I will have to start assigning more homework, but it is really rather impossible to grade 110 assignments every night, and just checking for completion does not help the students. I’ll come up with something I suppose. On another side, it was interesting to see the way that the students wrote out the exam. The majority section off the paper with an inch margin on the right side and then draw another line perpendicular to that sectioning off an inch and a half of the top. In the right hand corner they write their names and section. It is rather elegant. Then in the upper left corner they put the date. These students, let it be known, love rulers. If there is even a hint of a chance of using a ruler they leap at it. I suppose it is because it allows maximum space control, for as much as they love rulers, they hate to tear out paper from their cahiers. That is why I gave them the paper for the quiz. Providing the paper also provided, I thought, a way to convey the import of the occasion. I also wore my suit coat and waited for them inside. You will recall that normally I wait until the students are all inside before swinging forth and brandishing my finger. A finger that now, upon their receipt of their quizzes and grades, I fear that they may want to cut off and nail to the chalkboard.

Concluding the day was a tremendously beautiful rain storm. I walked through it with all these quizzes under my jacket and tucked nightly beneath my arm. A hen would not drape her wing more protectively over her chick than I did those quizzes. Nor did they become wet, rather I did. Great sopping squelches rose from my shoes and my pants clung to my legs under a patina of dirt--it is hard to tell if the rain itself is dirty (unlikely) or if the wet pants grab dirt to them (likely). I arrived back to my castle and dried off. It was a rather purifying walk, though I felt a great deal like Hortense in Bleak House when she removes her shoes and strides through the landscape and the wet on the grass is described as being like blood. This was especially so, because the dirt here is of a rather sanguinary character. And like Hortense, I had been slighted--though in a much different manner than Lady Dedlock's insult.

Make sure to look at the next post for a slew of pictures of Ngaoundere.