The Hayride

But first, a Christmas story. Christmas was far less of an extravaganza than was thanksgiving with reference to the number of persons gathered around a table, but it did, despite that, attempt to be something greater. As you know preparation for the season begins at the beginning of the month. After Col Pro's concert, other groups around town hold concerts and there are various forms of entertainment to be had, from shopping for new clothes to buying dolls (disturbingly, in this valley of the dolls as well, they are all white) to stumbling upon a small selection of toy helicopters next to the onions in the market. But most of all are the children's pageants. In America, we love the animals. Ahhh, look at the cute cow, listen to the darling sheep (baaaah, where's the baaaaaby) and comment wryly upon whatever other animals might have showed up. But here in Cameroon, it is a different story. Here king Herod rules and does so despotically. He yells at the wise men, to be expected, but then he yells at the shepherds, more of a surprise, and then he just sort of hangs out until, whilst having his fingernails files by nubile slaves and his face fanned by the same and his feet rubbed as well, he offhandedly declares the slaughter of the innocents. In a twelve minute pageant, he'll probably be on stage for between five and seven of those minutes. Also, the shepherds are always dressed as Muslims and made the comic relief of the story. I probably saw four different versions of this and they varied to a similar extent as if you were to see four different churches do th well known story. Of course there is a major difference in the songs sung, including the absolute shocker "we love being present at Mary's birthing pains" despite the title it is really a hip rolling tune.

Christmas eve was the best part, I went with Alfred to cross and crown, the English speaking church, and we were two of fifteen total. I went because I wanted to holler out some Christmas songs in English and I was not disappointed because somehow someone had sent the church a set of ELCA bulletins for the candlelight service. Excellent. Lots of good songs and so there was good singing. Then, since it is a huge holiday for friends and less for families, indeed presents are given a few days earlier, I went with Alfred for a beer and then we went to drink some shah with Oliver and Meno, a teacher of Mathematics whom we encountered on the way. Asa result of the special occasion, I bought two bottles of guinness and mixed them into the shah, normally I don't like to drink it adulterated, but figured it was a small way to give a gift to the others. When I got back, Val and jack had prepared a small selection of appetizers and some drinks so with Mia we all had a nice time. I discovered that I really like deviled eggs when they have a dill pickle sticking out of them. Otherwise I don't really like them. Also, there was some cheese

Christmas began with the news that Jack wasn't feeling so hot, but we went on out to church, which except for some Christmas tunes was normal and crazy long because of a baptism. But there was a really fine Zulu men's a cappella group that ws hoppity. Unfortunately, like most times when there is a synthesizer and a man behind it, I was forced to hear banged out notes that cut brutally through the music. Adding to the length was a very strange presentation by the Sunday school wherein individually they would stand in the front, bow or curtsy and say "I would like to present a memory verse" which basically means a recitation, only they had only begun to learn them that morning so even the best was rather woeful.

Alright but the big event is that I finally left Ngaoundere. Boarding Jack's truck at eight twenty-ish we buckled in and drove down the highway and drove some more. It is fun to drive past dozens of different small villages because they each do their roofs differently and it is nice to think of differentiating oneself architecturally. When we came to a large cotton field, we turned off onto a tortured gravel road And drove and drove and drove. Then we stopped and had tasty egg salad and avocado sandwiches and took a bathroom break in the bush. And as we continued on Jack said to start looking for animals. A half hour later I was about to say something but it took so long to register in my mind that it wasn't until a half hour and ten secnds that I began screaming to stop. Since jack is rather deaf, it took lots of work. Everyone kept asking why, why why, but it was so simple to me that I just kept saying to the right.I completely elided the fact that I had spotted an enormous giraffe perfectly framed betwixt two trees. We stared and clicked our cameras for a while and marveled at its serenity before it slowly turned and with the slight twitch of a tail disappeared into the bush. A regal wise councilor of an animal, I think. It was not much longer when we took a left and passed und a wrought iron fence: Boubanjida African Safari. Yep, for my Christmas vacation I trucked around a safari. But you can too, and I don't mean by following a blog, or looking at pictured (really it's too bad I don't have my computer to upload some of them now). Nope, instead you can drive a few miles outside Mission Hill in late crisp November and pull in at Garrity's, because an African Safari I'd just like a hayride.

The sit where we were is a small compound of six boukarous (the peaked huts) a long table for communal meals, and a nice lounge space for drinking and chatting in the evening. The whole thing overlooks a dry riverbed, though in the rainy season this river rages, or so I've been told. Well, to go on a safari, one needs: a car, a guide who will tell you what you are seeing and point things out, and several pairs of eyes. But basically we drive around on paths looking for animals. It is like sitting on a wagon scratching itchilly and plucking various apples down. Only instead of a crisp Macintosh, I admire the ruddy bottoms of the baboon. Instead of the mouth tightening granny smith, I hearken to the mocking laughter of the Ibis (and following this sighting I launch into an explanation of the genre of vituperative poetry we have from Callimachus and Ovid in their poems of the same name, and contrary to other mentions of classical authors, i was asked some questions about Ovid's Metamorphoses given the apropos nature of our environment). Adding to the hayride effect is the fact that the landscape is the burnt autumnals of a late SD November, complete with crackling leaves, bare trees. The differences are in touch and smell, for everywhere reeks of smoke since they are burning the bush right now, and it is near thirty three Celsius in the afternoon. Though the morn is a brisk fourteen. That first day's excursion I also saw warthogs, my preferred spotting, and dozens of various types of antelopes. As we were returning, we stopped behind a truck who quickly motioned us to look and after fruitlessly searching I was able to spot a tawny movement in the back and a flick of a black tip. It was a far distant lion. By then it was dark so we returned to the camp and found Phil and June had come in for the day as well. We all sat around until supper, an elaborate three course meal opening with an onion soup, a main dish of cous cous with mouton in acream sauce and a dessert of a roll stuffed with chocolate mousse or a couple slices of papaya and lime. As we received our desserts first, a French woman leaped up with her eyes blazing and the baby on her hip burbling and demnded the children be fed right away. She proceeded to accost the head waiter for several minutes and grabbed the dishes from his hand to give to her children. It was rather unpleasant, but spiced the dessert in the end. And then it was into bed and up at five thirty the next day to break our fast on coffee, or tea or coco and bread and butter and jams. I soon gained a reputation for my prodigious ability to consume butter and was to be seen eating the little packets plain to the delighted consternation of my fellow voyagers. That morning I went out with Phil and June and we saw many antelopes, some warthogs (yeah) and good tall elephant grass. When we had been driving through the grass and not seeing anything for a while, I got up on the roof of the car and bounced merrily along for an hour. Lunch was a small salad followed by frog legs in a cream sauce over potatoes and a fruit cup. Really all this European fare with the heavy sauces was clogging me up, I who have body by corn fou fou djamba djamba, so I was craving some greens. Though it would be long till I received them, not until I returned actually. Vegetables were not highly prized here. In the afternoon, after a short but very heavy siesta overlooking the baboons frolicking in the riverbed, I headed out with Jack and Val and had a great few hours as their translator. We had gotten a hundred yards out from the camp when we spotted a large herd of antelope species and s hundred yards later an enormous bull elephant. Our guide screamed at us to back up declaring it to be terribly dangerous since it was alone and flapping its ears. The rest of our hayride proceeded calmly with lots of good spotting. Val is funny to drive with because she really likes birds and is constantly bemoaning the fact that she missed a picture of one or another is Ill placed. That night's supper was squash soup, noodles and antelope in a brown sauce followed by rum baked bananas. So still nerry a sign of a vegetable. The next day I came back with Val and Jack, Mia stuck around to return with Phil and June, and we arrived home dusty and tired and at once I headed out for some greens, only to find my lady not at home. So after a cup of shah I returned home and cooked up a heaping plate of petit pois.

Two Bereavements and a Dance

First of all a very merry Christmas to all of you. Enjoy staring at your Sapin du Noel and fetching presents from the underneath of them. Enjoy the carols, the candles, the wreathes and the jingling of bells when santa's sleigh coruscated upon you icy roofs.

Second of all, mail call! We enjoyed heaps of laughter over the comics that mom sent me, several of which were, as always, unexpectedly apropos to late events. A second letter came, absolutely unknown from St. John American Lutheran Church in Sioux falls, it contained a very nice chain letter full of well wishings. And I got a card from my grandma and grandpa on the farm! Though they are actually in Texas. And on this Christmas card was...S N O W. Ahh, how I stared at it last night over my plate of french fries and my beer. It was a really swell card with all sorts of nice things written in it. So, are you others feeling jealous yet for not sending me mail and having your deed immortalized in the digital form?

Last week, M'baya held a bereavement for Genesis, the wonderful owner of Mandela bar where we gather for our monthly meetings and where more often I go to drink shah. I was rather flattered to be asked to attend, but he wanted me there since in the last few months I have become something of a part of his life. I have now attended two meetings and visited him often, toured his shah production and his farm and shared peanuts with his family. Now the bereavement is a bit strange. It begins a bit like the meetings. There is an enormous hundred litre container of shah, the chairs are set in a circle and everyone just palavers at ease. This setting was further offset by the fact that it was the day of the Cameroon Football Cup and so the TV, small with wretched staticy reception, was merrily giving blurry entertainment and the conversation would be periodically interrupted on account of someone suddenly commencing to cheer for a team,  following by a fervid assertion that "I have no preference for who wins, I just like to see goals". I've never been in such a crowd of those who refuse to take sides and worried a bit about the consequences if the afterlife is dantesque (review your commedia all ye who don't recall the Inferno). several half-hours into the evening of solidarity, Eugene, a retired army parachuteer, who has far and away the hardest handshake I've shaken here-and I've shaken _a lot_ of hands-, stood and gave a short very tender eulogy for the brother of Genesis. The conversations then resumed. Not having the bereavement stamina of the Africans, who can go all night and several days, I wanted to leave to continue with my reading schedule for the night. But before I left I delivered my own eulogy of sorts, but since I did not know the brother, it instead turned into a praise of the way life is celebrated here in Africa, because it was not just us in Ngaoundere who mourned the brother, but anywhere where two or more villagers were a bereavement was held. My eulogy, involving as it did the key words of myth, family, futurity, and culture, culminated in me giving the peculiar triplicated hug to Genedis and then there was a smattering of applause. And Alfred and I left, though after he dropped me at home he returned.

The second bereavement came very recently, two days ago, when Oliver learned that his grandmother had died. The grandmother of the village, his own having passed away in the seventies. There again we gathered for a bereavement and again the seating occurred in a circular manner and the television flashed away from a distracting corner, although this time at least it was blissfully silent. The shah passed around, and everyone laughed when I offered my opinion on a particular new brand that came neither from Mandela nor Mama Shah, at whose restaurant I most frequently drink it and whose corn fou fou I most frequently drink and whose tiny daughter frequently grasps my wrist to pull herself on the bench beside my left side, punch the buttons on my watch and then force my gaze down with an imperious "regardez" to see that she has the power of making the watch light luminescent.  It was wonderful to meet Oliver's family and see his home and I mentioned the same in my speech in this house as well. For even as bereavements mourn the loss of someone they inevitably widen the circle of acquaintances that can turn into new family (such was the theme of this speech, liberally mixed with metaphors of corn, growing, harvest, and shah and fellowship).

These evenings are juxtaposed with the following when Alfred informed me that his wife had invited the two of us to a celebration of the husbands of her own meeting. Everyone has meetings here, which is a rich tradition lost to America. Of which you can read more in the rather shocking Bowling Alone by R. Putnam. Anyway, we arrived at a bit after seven, which was an hour after the start time and a good forty eight minutes early. We took a moto through the back ways of Ngaoundere into a wealthy quarter of the city and entered through a large portal set in a thick wall. Then up a set of ceramic steps and into an enormous living and dining room space dominated by a huge white draped table. The drapes hid strange mysterious castle-like shapes and I swiftly imagined an entire medieval countryside complete with ravaging dragon. In this case the dragon would be me eating whatever may be beneath the cloth. Set along the entire perimeter were the huge couched and easy chairs upholstered in gaudy patterns favored here. So Alfred and I took a seat, leaned our heads against the wall and closed our eyes murmuring conversation. When we opened them from our pseudo siesta dome forrty minutes later, the chairs had filled with men and women and I watched as several women dressed in working clothes disappeared behind a curtained aperture to emerge moments later artificially coiffed, jeweled and be-dangled, garbed in flowing garments, and healed in a high and vicious manner. Then the program began. First the women thanked their husbands for attending, then the president was called forward (alfred's wife!) and she introduced the governing committee of the meeting group and we all clapped. Then there was a report of what the women had done that year, bought notebooks for the children, taught each other new recipes, taught a new healing potion with a particular leaf, etc. And then the husband of the woman whose home we stayed in offered an official thanks to us for coming to his home and offered a gift. Out came some crated of beer and the women all leaped up and ululated and crowded around him to express gratitude. And then they said that a special guest would speak and I looked around for the speaker and saw instead everyone looking at me. Luckily the off the cuff speech is my favorite genre and I rose to begin with a desideratum that I was woefully unprepared for such a moment not least because of the rather recent knowledge that I would give the speech, but more on account of the fact that I was the only unmarried person in the house with the exception of the children of the home. With the laughs falling behind me, I shifted gears to discuss being invited into the homes of various persons and seeing this particular moment as but a natural extension of the Cameroonian family whereby family ties are hardly the strongest based on blood but on fellowship. After sharing my reflections, I commented that I had to apologize for having nothing to give them to drink, but since their sense of taste would soon be sated I might seek to sate their sense of hearing and so launched into a heavily bass rendition of Silent Night that was soon arching tenor over the audience and led to them all joining in in various forms of dialect, French, English and a dozen times as many different tunes and rhythms. It was quite cacophonic. Afterward the mistress of ceremonies thanked me for reminding all of them that we were in the season of the fete and that she wished she hadn't forgotten the carol sing in the program. And then the cloth was undraped revealing the feat. Four different salads, thee different types of fish dishes, two of chicken, a chancy tomato sauce, some piment, fried plantains, beer, rice, batons of manioc. Excellent. I ate. I drank. And I thought that was all. But then the table was moved away. At first I was confused, but then the patriarch of the home was called forward, handed a bottle of Irish whisky, and a tray of kolo nuts (traditional to share over drinks, I think I've mentioned them in relation to shah. They are horribly bitter). And he knelt in the middle of the hall and began chanting and then began telling jokes about various ancestors all the while pouring periodic libations. Then when the ancestry had all been invited inside, he went around to all the luminal spaces in the home and poured a line of whisky to hold them all their till the evening ended. And now, it was a bit after eight thirty and hidden speakers began to thump forth music of the south west region and the mistress of ceremonies called for the opening dance! this is a mixed number between the husbands and wives of the committee. And it is ladies' choice as long ad wife does not choose husband. Alfred stood ruefully up and the dance began, that slow rhythmic dance of Africa that could go all day. One just switching the weight from one foot to the other in a languid shuffle while moving the fists clenched to the side. And then it was over, lastly hardly thirty seconds. Ha, I though, I can match that. And so I asked the mistress of ceremonies herself for the next dance. Now she is probably one of the most revved personage in Ngaoundere, having run a school and being wealthy besides, but she agreed to a dance, and so with my hips jockeying and my fingers snapping and my feet jostling I whipped out to the dance floor with the ghost of Swayze staring gap mouthed over me. After all, I could keep this up for the thirty seconds of dancing demanded. Ha, I realized that the ancestors matched me laugh for laugh. This particular song and dance lasted for a solid seven minutes. After forty five seconds people started grinning as they saw my panicked look. But then with a robust chortle I broke into some quick spins and leaps and was ready. Fully energized I moved rapidement. And by the end the white dancer (also called Michael Jackson at various points in the night) won great applause. From there on out Alfred and I alternated danced, though I will freely admit that he was far and away the most popular and many and more women asked him to dance while I asked as many old women as I could, as is my want. Throughout the night two dancers stood out. The first was astonishing with her flat red shoes and middle length sleeve jacket and black slacks. Whenever she was on the floor she moved with a stately grace that belied the stately and left only grace. The other was a heavily muscled women with a flouncy blue dress and leggings who looked more out of a nightclub off forty second street than a dancer at a women's meeting. The latter I had the honor of dancing with at what I thought was the last dance. The music came on fast and thick and she moved alone to the floor. All else sat back, but I soon figured the dance he danced and rose with a step two three movement and tested and slid behind her to bounce up and down and bow. With her backing up and me following, we had the floor alone. And then the music shifted to a more intense speed and she grinned and flowed away, but I was there to catch her and sliding my suit jacket of my shoulders and tossing it behind me we whirled the dance floor as other joined in. And then the dance was over, but it was only over because there was a set of speeches to happen while more beer was handed out. This particular set of speeches was about gifts. The proprietor first gave out some money and spoke some kind words and gave some cash. Alfred did the same, and as movement was getting ready for something I stood to give my second speech of the night. Overflowing with emotion of the night, after all it had only been one year before when I spent all night dancing in the dance halls of Lima with my father and step-mother (there too with great energy and begin all the matriarchs for the honor) and then I said I would like to dedicate my gift to her in the red shoes who graced the floor in such a stately manner and arabesqued a wad of cash toward her which was intercepted by cheers of the attendants and then the second wave of dancing began. And I was thick and center, sweating and laughing. At a bit before two the next morning, though, I admitted defeat to the falling asleep Alfred and we walked the several kilometers home through the silent night that I had sung about five and a half hours ago.

Giving gifts getting cheers

So I went to elementary school, middle school, and high school. I then attended college and graduate school. In all that time I can remember no christmas when there was not a bit of a party or a treat handed out to commemorate the occasion, it was expected and we always said thanks. Well, life is certainly different here in Ngaoundere. Imagine, if you would like to put yourself in the dusty and smoke filled mountain region where I currently dwell, Thankgsiving passes, December encroaches with it's economic and commercial consumptive pressures how best to combat and lethargy descends. Defeat, ohh the teachers complain, the students are distracted, they are tired they are excited only for the Christmas program. It is not the students who are so, but the teachers. And admittedly they deserve to be so. The promises of the administration go unfulfilled concerning holiday bonuses, the donators of punishments stop caring if students enter class on time or return to their rooms in a timely manner, and the dust and smoke are so thick that everyone has sniffles. In addiction, at least three students faint every morning thus further delaying start time. They faint from dehydration perhaps, or poor diet, or in imitation, the bane and play of teachers and students at the middle school level. I decided that those teachers with twenty or more years of experience had to be wrong. I forged ahead. Early December was difficult, for the students were focused on the concert, but I found with a well placed Christmas song that I captured their attention for two class periods and a short review about pronunciation of end consonants in English as well as the present continuous tense. Then this week chaos ensued for there was no class on Monday, instead we had the general meeting of classes. Here in rapid fire manner, each set of teachers for a class (5b, 5c, 4a, which are mine) gather and read the top three students and the bottom three, assign sanctions (which means compliment and placement on the tableau d'honneur) and talk about whose comportment is good and whose bad. I was very pleased that my students who do well in English do well in their other classes, similarly those who misbehave in my class misbehave in their others as well. It was nice to not feel so isolated in my experience, and then followed the strangest experience. The teachers spoke frankly about who they like and don't, who is smart and isn't, and mocked some and complimented others. Welcome, I told myself sarcastically, to the teacher's clownge. (portmanteau of lounge and clown). I limited my remarks to saying that we should find a way to have the eyesight of the students checked. Such a comment checked the laughter and it turns out that this will probably not happen. However, I do want to say that it is great to finally see who the other teachers are of these same students, I wish we could've met earlier at mid trimester as well.

Special note. Afterward the music teacher asked me to ask America if they would like to buy instruments for the college music department. I said that I would ask America and so I am now doing sol if you would be interested in such a project please email me and I will provide more information.

Then on Tuesday I got to have class. Yeah. And despite the fact that several of the other teachers happened to be gone that day, I still had many in class and I taught and taught and taught their eyeballs out. We did exercised on the board, we practiced asking questions in increasingly rapid and normalized style. It was playful and practical. And most of all it was successful. I kept their attention for the period, everyone participated, and the hour was not lost. Wednesday came the grand conseil. At this all the teachers gathering the morning to listen to the heads of the department read the results of their classes and make a complaint. First one would say, ahh their comportment is very bad,another would say, they do not behave well, a third would say, they are unruly. It basically condenses ot the same result. Everyone thinks that their are too many problems and a lack of behavior. Well, there are two solutions, one is to make the punishments more rigid, a horrid plan. The other is to have either fewer students or more teachers, which will never happen for reasons economic. Of course if I could discover the pill to make students proud of their comportment that might help as well. But truly for me I think the problem is one of too much leisure. The middle schoolers have two long breaks, one at 10:10-10:45 but because of the nature of the school we don't actually commence until a bit before eleven. And even though I start class on time the students don't drift in until they want. The second break is from 12:30-1:05, but this too extends very far. Further, class ends on wednesdays and Fridays at noon thirty. Also, the classes don't follow a patterned schedule. This means that students have greater frequency to forget assignments, lose papers and homework, and generally lose themselves in the sound and fury of frustrated professors strutting and fretting their hours (really fifty minutes) upon the stage. But such is life. Their is also a serious lack of pride in one's own work, though plenty of interest in others' grades.

And now the gifts. I assumed naturally enough to my mind, that all sorts of professors would be bringing small things in. But I was the only one, and I became papa Noel with my handouts of flavored biscuits, coco, coconut, and butter. When I went to give the teachers their biscuits they scolded me for not making them song Jingle Bells first. Oh, they have been so funny these past weeks, whenever they see me the teachers mutter s bit of "jungle bells jingle bells hmm hmm hmm hmm HEY." I also mixed up class. I tore in with shouts of jingle bells whilst whirling my opaque bag here and there. The students joined in and as we danced our way into the final chorus, brought forth the small gifts to great cheers and gasps and stamping of feet and banging of tables. Tossing them forth like a presidential opening pitch at the baseball game they leaped for the Kirby Puckett catch. And then, wonder of wonders miracle of miracles, they sat down and waited for class. Then followed enormously successful dictation. So successful that I had an extra ten minutes at the end and so I talked about Christmas and Santa and the Xmas tree and wishing a happy new year. It was marvelous and a fabulous end of the year. I might get in a bit of trouble because one absolutely ingenuous splinter of a child asked if papa Noel was real and I arched my voice and spoke my imagination to the north pole and tales of santa's helpers. Yes, Ngo Zaah, there is a Papa Noel!

Jingle bells

First I owe an apology for misrepresenting the situation a the instalation of the general secretary last weekend. The acerbic speech was not directed at the ELCA but at the group here in Cameroon that has broken from the EELC to found a second force and the man was articulating the ways that he saw him as cult like.

Have you thought about how difficult it is to get the rhythm of the second time of this marvelously common Christmas tune? "oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh" thunk about that as you read.

It is fascinating to me how my weeks operate in cycles, it is enough to drive one into Vico's New Science as a true believer in the cyclicities of time. Because it has been fabulous. It began Sunday morning with Alfred who had invited me to attend his church, Cross and Crown. This is the only fully English Lutheran church in Ngaoundere, there are other English churches but they are not Lutheran, and it was a great shivering surprise to walk in and see the Green book in all the pews. I was ready to know everything that was going to happen. The service began interestingly with a procession of the women's council dancing their way in and then into a familiar liturgy we launched with an opening hymn. Woooomph, my readiness screeched to a halt faster than a moto behind a stopped banana truck. The speed of the hymns was half time at least and that leaking the rhythm I am so accustomed to what with the occasional screech from an electric keyboard. At least they don't sing the psalm responsively. That is something that bothers me and it would have been even worse here. They have an interesting hymnal here as well that is African American, but the songs they chose we ones that no one knew so there was quite a bit of stuttering and stopping uncertainly,the great sung treat was Alfred's son who gave a beautiful solo, I forgot to note what it was and have since forgotten, but it was a consummate performance and he also performed admirably on the drums. The sermon left a lot to be desired, what with starting a new reading cycle, gospel of Mark, I though the least the pastor could have done was mark this, but he gave a rather phoned in sermon about the importance of waiting. I missed the three part structure of the Fulfulde service here the pastor opens with a local anecdote, connects it to the gospel, and then draws out a larger philosophical or textual reading, but then church was over and energy built. It was the last Sunday of Thanksgiving and people came to the front with their offerings of yams, oranges, pots of this, jars of that and jugs of the other thing. I was used to this from the Sunday out in the country, but what I was not ready for was the switching on of a microphone, his strutting into the crowd with one bared and muscled arm holding aloft a jug of peanut oil and howling "bidding begins at one thousand". I was in the midst of an auction. There is nothing, by the way (a lie, there are lots of things) that get my blood howling more than the inside of an auction house or the open field of a farm auction, but not hunched over an eBay auction. That does nothing for my sanguinary speedometer. I began rolling in the rhythms of the bidding, here we moved by thousands of francs,here by but fifty, but upwards each product leaped well past their worth. I found myself bidding urgently for a closed pot. I had no idea what was in it but when the bidding had reached two thousand after moving up by increments of two and three thousand I sent a clarion call of three thousand through the sanctuary and was met with ululations of approval. And what had I won, a pot of ecrivisse seche. Dried crayfish. Alfred and I hunched down and began munching contentedly and watching the rest of the bidding. It was quite fun. One of the most powerful memories that flooded my senses at that moment was of a christmas many many years past whilst we still dwelt in the gemutlich confines of Roseni. It was a cold evening and we were in the church basement. There was loud bidding, but my ears had little power over my eyes which csreefully lusted sfter a lsrge quilt with snow leopards printed on itl spread here and there were bits of red yarn holding the various squares in place. I was sure I would win, but over every bid of mine came a dear voice, Candy wond. I was defeated. Deveststed I wept myself to sleep for a week. Christmas eve came and I hunkered down beneath the tree to await the coming of Santa Claus, but wouldn't you know it I fell asleep. When I awoke, I was warmer, warmer by far than I should have been being as I was across the room from the radiator and the tree had not started on fire. But then I did not recognize my sleeping bag either, for it had gained a distinct pattern of snow leopards and here and there was dotted with knots of red yarn holding the squars in place. Christmas had come.

Afterward Alfred and I walked through the countryside to his house and set some wonderful corn fou fou that his wife had prepared that morning for us. After a quick cup of shah down the road I was back home and reading. A marvelous difference from the seven days before.

Brief note: I write about drinking shah a lot, and there has been some concern about this, so I want to give a report on it. After the kernels of corn are separated from the ear, they are left in a cool place with a drop of moisture until they begin to germinate. At this point they are ground very finely, boiled, and left in large vats to settle. After a week's settling, they are reboiled and become shah. Slightly sweet, the only product is corn. Thus it is basically a high fiber meal-drink that tastes great. True, it is fermented, but the alcohol content is very very low and even after drinking of it copiously it only brings a certain lethargy, definitely not drunkeness, so have no fear of my becoming the great dipsomaniac of Cameroon.

The week swept by with half days the whole time as the students are preparing for the Christmas concert Saturday night, the reason for the lateness of this post, but there was a surprise on Thursday as I rolled in for my eight twenty class. Who was standing outside my classroom but my favorite, said ironically, mistress of English studies in the great Ngaoundere area. I was under a surprise inspection! I whipped through my mind what to do. I had not played the english game lately, I had planned a fun day of drawing on the board and writing narratives using our new vocabulary of adventure and exploration that I gave (we've been taking lots of hikes along the beach and through the mountains, and climbing many a tree, let me tell you!) as I walked in I sniffed the class out for a hint of what to do, I glanced at Banote and got the secret spy nod. Meteke gave me the hand gesture of complicity, Haoua and Moussa rolled their shoulders to signify their readiness and even Rosalie and Kana winked conspiratorially, I glanced over to Soknan and Woachie to make sure their were on my side and received similar gestures to go ahead from Elisabet, Ali Aouda, and Yepele. Comfortable, I went up to the front and introduced my class to our guest and what followed was...

The Utopia of Mendacity.

...for fifty minutes I pretended that my students are not ill-behaved and they pretended that I am a hugely successful teacher. This was a mission that we had chosen to accept and the message self distrusted after sixty seconds, but by that time we were so comfortably ensconced in our easy chairs of wool-pulling that I was actually a good teacher and they actually knew their material.I began with a dazzlingly review of the difference between "since when" with it's answer of "since" plus the present perfect tense and moment of commencement and "how long" with it's answer of "for" plus a a specific length of time. After that eith the students leaping over one another to answer my questions in complete sentences and to hear my corrections, we moved to a review prepositions with locations and they eagerly tossed them out as easily as tiger woods once putted the little white ball into small holes or Michael Jordan once tossed bigger orange balls into bigger orange netted hoops. And I in the front with my wand of chalk conducted this display. To conclude we showed the inspectress a review of long forgotten conditionals while I introduced the second conditional of "should...would" they soon caught on that this was a hypthetical flavor, a most "peut-êtrement" like quality. I figure I'd play a bit with the French language and adverb creation for our guest. And then the bell rang and my students thanked me before filing out. We were all exhausted from running our utopia and thankful that it had not degenerated into either a dystopia of teacher over student or student over teacher force. And then the inspectress summoned me. No compliments from that circle. First, what had I titled my lesson. I replied that I had no title but simply wrote the schedule of the day along the side of the board before every class. Uff da, that earned me a light scolding. Second, had my goals been met? What! I had no clearly articulated goals for each fifty minute session, another scolding. Why had I not told my students that "should" comes from shall and "would" comes from will. I answered that I want my students to speak and be able to use English not to be linguists and that further would does note carry a definite tense marker as will does and that I teach what is necessary for my students to read. Thus they know what a direct object I'd because it helps them with their pronouns, but I am not going to ever use the word shall with them since they'll never see it in the next three years.well, I was slowly worming my way into the black hole of English teachers of Ngaoundere. I figured I had nothing more to lose, but then she asked I fi used the books. I responded that I tried but I was contemptuous of it. She asked how I could know that and I curtly responded that I had read it. She didn't think much of that answer and I proceeded to enumerate my complaints. It had no index, it lacked even a rudimentary glossary, it was preaching in it's value system, it used phrases and verbal forms that the students were at least a year from encountering and by not having a glossary there was no way they could even begin to figure it out from context. The paucity of grammar exercise much less clearly articulated sensible grammar lessons made for an impossible course to be followed, as I opened my mouth to continue she suggested we move on to the office business she asked my name, date of birth and then cell phone number. When I answered that I had no cell phone she thought to have found firm footing and launched a diatribe about the necessity of having a phone, what if she wanted to get in touch with me? She asked, I responded that I could see no reason for her needing to but if she really wanted me she could contact me through the head of the department and thus follow the correct division of powers. Secondly, she could send me a letter through the college or if she thought it was a necessary part of the job she should suggest the college supply phoned, after all they give me chalk, pens and notebooks to do my job. I am afraid that I was not at my best at this moment and could probably have handled the situation better, but the way she was going about this cell phone business as though it were a failure on my part while I think of it as my year of moral superiority sat poorly in by black bile.

After this I went out for some afternoon shah and fou fou with Alfred and Jeremy so that helped settle me a bit. And then some quick reading and I was back at school. Why? Well for the Christmas practice, of course. I had been told to arrive at five o'clock, when I asked. I would not have even known I had to be there (look at that sentence, what good does it do you to know that would comes from will, huh?) and when I arrived I was the only one there. No one else drifted in until six. I was pretty upset, because I am a volunteer, after all, and I had not even known I was volunteering for this. But then I decided that I needed a better attitude, and began to think what this was like. It struck me that the nearest parallels Could be found in high school teachers that have to volunteer to be activities guards. They always wear their school shirts and take tickets or patrol or carry rulers to dances to ensure the students not become too lascivious! And at once my attitude changed. I was indeed an incorporated teacher. At the same moment I thought this, a group of my students approached with cried greetings of Mr. Christian (a hailing to which I am greatly attached). And I settled into a merry bombardment of questions and answers and general palaver outside of class. Though I did take a moment to emphasize that at this time of day we say good evening or even good night. The rehearsal went well, I was surprised by how well, and I patrolled my area. In a y that I hope my teachers at YHS would be proud of, while simultaneously wishing I had a shirt with rampant buck and gazelle, or whatever the equivalent here would be, probably a bubu of some sort. And the evening was over and there was a retirement to drink shah with my usual crowd of Oliver, Alfred and a snagged up Jeremy, who by the way is the German teacher so we occasionally rock the trilingual conversation.

Friday I decided would be a fun day because the student are exhausted from the long semester and these night practices for the concerts, therefore I though we'd learn jingle bells. Remember how I told you to think about it. I began by writing song on the board. *cheers*. I sang it through, tting the first verde, they begn to stamp their desks in unison and urge me on, I circled round for the chorus and decided to really give them something to cheer. Slowing to a crawl on the last "o what fun it is to ride in a one (held long) horse (held long, rise in pitch) open (huge and breathy and operatic) sleigh(bellowed forth in marvelous three tenor style) benches scraped and table clattered and the students were on their feet roaring and cheering and holding their hands in taut verbrato in the sir slowing my voices resonances to shiver through their bodies. And the I wrote the words on the board and we settled down to learn the song phrase by phrase. I used it to emphase tense, present, and the importance to convey tone (how good a song would it be if the words were "oh what fun it was to ride...over the fields we went..." right, anyway the students were laughing either in agreement with my good sense or the look of mock horror I made to the fact that I made faces while doing so. I think my rather elastic expressions delight them. After class, headed out to the sounds of their reconstructing the sound.

I came back for my second class, and it began the same. Same opening, same slow phrasal progress. But as I went through the song slowly the second time with my back to the class I heard their eagerness, and reaching the end I turned around. The classroom was packed. Normally I have 32 in this class but now there were well over seventy students there ready to learn to sing the jingle bells and sing we did, thundering the entirety of college Protestant. And was repeated a third time as I came in for class with my fourth levels, though by this time they were icing for the jingle bells. And they got them.

And now the concert is over. The famous col pro fete Noel. it was loud, but I am afraid that I can say little that is absolutely positive about the experience since I am, right now, rather embittered by my place. I was posted as a guard in the very corner of a group of adolescent boys. There were supposed to be four of us there, but there were only two and the other professor was too busy grinning to make any attempt at control. And so our section was repeatedly the victim of scoldings from below. And mind this is during the concert. I, embarrassed, did my utmost, I commandeered cell-phones, I urged that the students pay attention and behave, but they echoed out with mocking at my french accent. Then the next moment I turned around and my co-damage controll officr had gone across the hallway of the balcony. I was now alone and fodder for the youth. And they recognized it and bared their teeth and yowled into the night. Well, I am a volunteer here, and it is about as far from my roll as can get to be in that situation, so I left, although in leaving I departed some choice words to various people. Now a confession, when I misbehaved in middle school, and believe me I most certainly did, come the day of a concert or a performance my behavior was perfect and I gave it my all. Because come what may I had pride in my school and in the outcome of the evening. These students, though, as long as they get to make noise, that's what they will do. S the concert was loud and ill managed and still people thought it the greatest thing ever, but I saw only what it could have been if the students were chosen for their desire to be their rather than enforced attendance, if they had actually had full rehearsals so that the students could see the skit that formed the main structure of the shoe, but they had not and so every time they leaped up to get a closer look, or huddled under costs to listen to their cell phone music. And then to cap the evening, the teachers cancelled class the latter half of next week, thus allowing the gut to end on a celebration of missed academics. Bah. Humbug.

Containing many mentions of things abject

You'll have to be brave for this post o my three readers who are left perusing these laconic narratives of mine, for what follows is perhaps best meant for those who are not about to begin eating. The week began with great potential but by Sunday was boring. Saturday Night I went out with Alfred and Oliver to Behind Mandela, one of the best dive bars where one drinks the shah, and I saw a small pile of tasty treats. I usually eat peanuts at these moments but decided it was time to experience something new. After all, the opportunity is short. Right now people have begun to burn the tall grasses since the dry season is well and truly arrived. Well, from burning fires flee many things: criminals, rats, bugs. In the later. Category we include grasshoppers. Not your ordinary green grasshopper, but great finger sized brown grasshoppers, which, well fried up and legs detached accompany shah perfectly. The person who had prepared these particular specimens had filled the inside with spicy powders, so the experience goes like this. Crunch. Whoosh. (the crunch is biting down onto e head with it's beady eyes frozen in terror and the whoosh is of opening the mouth and grabbing air to try and cool off).

A new secretary general of the ELCS was installed on Sunday and the idea of the best way to do this is to hold a five hour church service without a single mention of the fact that it was the first Sunday of Advent. The vestments were all red, as well, since we were celebrating so one could not even know through basic symbolism. One of the parts included a hate speech against the part of ELCA that broke off from the main branch after certain basic human rights were recognized a few years ago by ELCA in America. Another part included s half hour gift giving session where the new secretary general stood in front of the congregation and people lined up to give him brightly wrapped presents and to drape him in fancy bubus. Another part was various choirs that sang and sang and sang and only some of which were really good. The neatest thing about the choirs is that they came from different regions and so whenever they sang in a new dialect different groups would stand up and walk by the choirs to give them coins and small bills to show their village pride. That was neat.

After this we emerged into the steamy afternoon (!) and I had only a brief break before I joined Alfred to visit a family meeting of his, this time for his village, Ya-bi. Unfortunately this was steadily boring because it lasted three hours and was all conducted in dialect. Alfred saw I was bored and I came back to the compound only to find an hour later that as soon as I left they began to dance and sing--the reason I had accepted the invitation in the first place. So that was frustrating. Then that night we went to the special party for teachers by the secretary general and listened to some funny speeches and saw a very funny skit that I did not understand but seemed to follow well-know skit tropes for the Cameroonians. Then we ate generous portions of cold food and drank warm beer. Smetimes things are a bit upside down here in Cameroon.

The students lamented their grades on Monday, but I figured it was just disappointment and after we went over the exams they seemed to accept that I was right, although we had a lot of drama because I was not consistent in taking off half points. Sometimes I used a decimal and sometimes a fraction and boy they could not wrap their heads around that phenomenon, so I had is row of students come up to me and make me count to twenty with them. A bit frustrating.

Wednesday I went out with Phil to the CoffeShop for a farewell supper, he's on his way to Yaounde to pick up his wife who is finally arriving. Wow he is excited. When we got back, he asked me to share a piece of cake that Val had made and shared with him. Well I eagerly joined in and as it was still warm found myself taking great delight in it. Then I headed home. I saw a shadow on my door handle and began grin. Val had decided to send me a portion to, and since I was not home she put it on my door. I hurried my step up the hill and began to sense something was wrong. There was a smell in the air. I slowed and began to shake. There is no mistaking the fact that the smell coming from the bag was not squash and peanut pie, it was the rank smell of fresh, very fresh, caca. How I stumbled back in shock at this. Half my mind reeled thinking it was hugely offensive and a bitter attack against my person while a small portion wondered if it was just an innocent prank. I cut the bag from the door and threw it aside before sprinting down to Phil and we set out to see if anyone had seen anything, well none had. I then returned home and wallowed in self pity.

Today started with a great potential, Alfred and I headed out to the bush to drink some Rafia wine. This is tapped directly from the Rafia bush and can be quite good when it is fresh since it is sweet and not to strong. It strenghtens through e day. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at this adorable camp in the bush, there were a dozen or so there already who were quite drunk and loud, thus I was uncomfortable from the start but all the more do because there were several there with a type of personality I dislike a great deal, namely those who say we have just met and we are friend and brother. I automatically reel away from these people, but it is hard to reel away from drunk men bigger than me. Luckily, after Alfred and I left, we took a wonderful ramble through the countryside and I calmed a bit and then ended the morning with some shah, peanut butter, and large helpings of corn fou fou djambe djambe (my favorite food). And now to conclude this rather wretched week, I will tell you that raffia wine leaves me with horrid flatuance.