Coming home...Or is it?

Tonight I arrived back in Yaoundé after a month’s vacation in the “civilized world” where I enjoyed such luxuries as flushing toilets, hot showers, unlimited high speed internet access, real books (that people read for pleasure!) and lots of ice cream and chocolate. Looking out the window of the taxi from the airport, I was filled with mixed feelings. I had the sense of being somewhere new and seeing things for the first time, but at the same time I had a sense of familiarity almost like the calm excitement you feel when after a long period away, you approach your destination and you start to recognize the scenery around you, then you know that you are home. It was then that I realized how much Cameroon has grown on me. Despite all the problems and frustrations, and despite how discouraged or homesick I sometimes feel, I’ve become attached to this dusty little country in the armpit of Africa. 

 My Cameroonian family who always looks out for me and shares the little that they have with me.

 

Recently my level of motivation dropped and I have been thinking a lot about going home (which probably had a lot to do with being back in my cultural comfort zone and with having access to running water). In conversations with family and friends, I am often negative and pessimistic, painting this awful picture of a miserable, poor, hot, dusty, and backwards region where the food isn’t very good.  But the truth is there are so many things I love about this country, and in particular the Far North, that I know it is going to break my heart when I leave here.

It makes me think that perhaps the best and most meaningful relationships or experiences we have are not the ones that come easily, but the ones that we have struggled and fought for. I have often described my experience here as tough, tougher than I expected and in ways that I couldn’t predict. But I didn’t  come to Cameroon looking for a free ride neither did I expect the work I was going to be doing to be like summer camp; I came here looking for a challenge and I got what I asked for and maybe even a bit more. At the end of the day, I am grateful for all the experiences I have had, the good and the bad, for each one has helped to shape me into (I hope) a better person. Mostly I feel very lucky to have seen and felt so many things in my short lifetime that I can honestly say I don’t regret any of it. 

 Dili and Mathias- two bright young boys who acted as my tour guides in Rhumsiki

So as I drive through the night time streets of Yaoundé, filled with life and music on a Saturday night, the feeling that rises up above the rest is the feeling of being blessed; Blessed to have had such a fortunate and privileged life; Blessed to have had so many wonderful memories; And especially, blessed to have been at the receiving end of so much kindness, generosity and love from so many people. Whether family, friends, acquaintances or even strangers, I have been especially lucky when it comes to the people that have been a part of my life. How many people, near or far, have touched my life and in some cases, profoundly altered it?

Before leaving for Cameroon, a friend offered me a book call the kindness of strangers (edited by Don George) as a parting gift. The book is a collection of travel stories by different people who have been helped out by strangers in surprising and unexpected ways. (Book description: A timely collection of inspiring tales, The Kindness of Strangers explores the unexpected human connections that so often transform the experience of travel, and celebrates the gift of kindness around the world.) I feel like I could have written that book based on my experiences alone and there wouldn’t have been enough pages to fit all the acts of kindness I have received. Just in the past month, how many people have bought me diner or an ice cream? Offered me a ride or given me a place to sleep for the night? Called me to see if I was okay and if I needed anything? Gone out of their way to accommodate me and help me out? Shared with me and taken care of me?

Saad and Djawe goofing around at the restaurant where I go to laugh and unwind. The owner, Saad's father, calls me sister and treats me like family. He occasionally offers me a free meal or juice.

When I was in India, a friend told me that “if you travel with a good and open heart, people will be good to you and will open their hearts to you”. In my life, I have found nothing to be truer. I also hope that it means that in some small way I have done something good or shown some kindness to all those people who have been good to me. So to all those people who have been a part of my life, I want to say thank you, although it can never be said enough. I can only hope that I can give back even a small portion of the love, kindness and generosity that you have given me.

I know this sounds a bit like a goodbye, but it isn’t. I still have a long journey ahead of me and a lot more love to give.  But as I get ready to head back to the Far North and to the challenges that await me, I have a lighter heart, a heavier bag (weighed down with snacks and presents for my kiddies), and a stronger resolve to make the most of the time I have left in Cameroon. 

“My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry; to get my work done and to try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return.”

Maya Angelou

Les femmes à l'école

J’arrive de l’école des mamans ou les femmes de niveau 1 étaient en train de faire une dictée. Des femmes qu’il y a quelques mois ne savaient même pas tenir un crayon, écrivent maintenant des mots comme « patate », « banane », « Amina » et « petite ».  Plus tard je m’assoies à côté d’une femme de niveau deux pour l’aider avec son exercice de lecture. Entre temps, la monitrice me raconte l’histoire de Doudjo, une femme qui récemment est devenue la monitrice d’un autre cours d’alphabétisation dans un autre quartier.

 

Deux femmes revisent leurs exercices d'alphabétisation

La monitrice m’informe qu’il y a quelques années Doudjo n’avait même pas finit son école primaire. Elle avait quitté l’école en CM1 (l’équivalent de 4ième année). Au moment ou elles se sont rencontrées, la monitrice, qui est aussi la directrice de l’école maternelle, faisait la rémédiation avec sa petite sœur qui était en CM2 (la dernière année à l’école primaire) et se préparait pour ses examens de fin d’année.  La monitrice a proposé à Doudjo de venir suivre les cours de rémédiation avec sa sœur afin qu’elle aussi puisse compléter et réussir son certificat d’études primaires (CEP). Au début Doudjo  a refusé en disant qu’elle n’avait pas les moyens pour faire le dossier du CEP. La monitrice a insisté en lui disant  de ne pas s’inquiéter pour le dossier, elle-même s’en occuperait.  Doudjo a suivis les cours avec la monitrice qui a aussi préparé et payé son dossier de CEP. À la fin de l’année, Doudjo a écrit et a réussit son examen. La monitrice l’a engagée comme maîtresse à l’école maternelle ou elle travail depuis cinq ans. Cette année, elle a été recrutée et formée pour enseigner l’alphabétisation à d’autres femmes qui n’ont pas eu l’opportunité d’aller à l’école.

 

Les femmes sont concentrées à apprendre.

Doudjo continue à apprendre et à s’épanouir auprès de son mentor qui lui conseille toujours sur comment bien enseigner à la maternelle et à l’alphabétisation. Elle cherche toujours des nouvelles opportunités pour développer ses compétences et être plus active. Doudjo est une modèle parfaite pour ses élèves et l’exemple vivante des bénéfices de l’alphabétisation pour les femmes. 

 

Quelques femmes avec qui je travaille qui attendent le défilé du 8 mars.

À toutes les femmes courageuses, comme Doudjo, qui osent poursuivre leurs rêves; et aux femmes dynamiques, comme la monitrice, qui donne de sa force aux autres qui ont moins de chance qu’elle afin qu’elles aussi puissent avancer- je vous souhaite une très belle journée de la femme!  Je ne peux pas exprimer à quel point j’admire votre courage et votre détermination. 

 

Les femmes des centres d'alphabétisation qui défilent le 8 mars.

I am a girl

« Sometimes I think it would have been better if my mom never gave birth to me. Or it would have been better if I had been a boy.” The confession I heard today from a 17yr-old girl faced with an ultimatum from her father to get married by the end of the month. 

Raised in the south, in the second largest city in Cameroun, Douala, Aminatou is a bright young girl who speaks fluent French and is better educated than most girls her age in Bogo despite quitting school early because “it isn’t very good for a Muslim girl to be too educated”. She went to trade school instead and learnt how to sew. Ever since she has been making a living for herself and even accepted to teach a group of young girls how to sew too. Sewing is an acceptable job for Muslim women because they can work at home and don’t have to leave the house. However, the classes for the young girls proved difficult to achieve when her father at first refused on the basis that it isn’t proper for a young woman to be leaving the house to work. The reasoning behind that being that she might get used to it than be disobedient and difficult to control when she gets married.  (Muslim women aren’t allowed to leave the house at all in their first year of marriage. Talk about trust issues!)

It seems to be a widespread belief among both Christian and Muslim men that working women are both troublesome and querulous. I met one young man who blamed his mother for the fact that his parents always fought. He believed it was best to marry a young virgin (preferably someone you don’t know too well) because that way “you would be her first and she will always fear you”. I tried to explain to him that a healthy relationship was based on trust not fear, and that if he really wanted a happy and peaceful household he would love and respect his wife not terrorize and control her. Unfortunately, I found out about two months later that the young man had a baby so at the time we were talking he was a) already married, or b) found out he had knocked a girl up and had to get married in a hurry. He told me he was 21yrs but he didn’t look older than sixteen. It’s hard to tell here...

One of my colleagues had an experience where she asked a man how he could tell which women were prostitutes and he gave a description that closely resembled the Christian women who sell their goods in the market. (Muslim women are not allowed to sell or even buy goods in the market but will send unmarried younger sisters or daughters to do the work. Yet another reason why they aren’t in school.) While yesterday, in a girls workshop, we (myself and two other volunteers) were told that girls aren’t allowed to wear long tunics with pants (what is known as the Indian or Arab style) because “they would look like prostitutes”. The funny part is that is exactly what all three white women in the room were wearing. Luckily we were told that it was okay for us, but Bogo girls have to wear the traditional pagne skirts or dresses. Oddly enough, this isn’t a Muslim or Christian rule but rather a matter of tradition. The tunic which is known here as the Arab style is commonly worn in many Muslim countries as well as India. Some of the more modern, educated women of the elite will wear tunics including the Sous-prefet’s wife which leaves me to believe that forcing girls to wear only skirts is another “idée villageoise”.

I can see why Aminatou might wish to be a boy. Life here just isn’t easy for a girl. They have so few rights, yet so many obligations (the main ones being to bear children and cook). I feel a painful tightening in my chest and my stomach every time I witness another girl being taken away to be married off; every time I meet a woman who is ill or has an infection but her husband won’t give her any money to go to the hospital or buy medication; every time a girl is pulled out of school because she has to help her mother at home or go sell things in the market; every time a woman is prevented from doing something because her husband won’t allow it. It hurts and I feel so powerless to do anything about it. I spent an hour and a half this morning discussing Aminatou’s predicament and trying to give her advice. She’d asked me to help her, but she knows as well as I do, there is very little I can do other than be supportive. Any intervention from me would just make her father angry (which I don’t want to do because I actually like him and consider him a friend despite his draconian ways when it comes to his daughter. In all other subjects he is open minded, generous and kind, but holds very traditional beliefs when it comes to his daughter’s future.  I have a hard time understanding the contradiction...) and he would mostly likely dismiss whatever I have to say on the basis that “my culture is different from theirs”. So what do I do? What does she do? How do I help a friend? I would like to say that I have the answer, but I just don’t. 

Yesterday, we heard a testimony from one very active woman in the community who told her story to the group of young girls and how she was forced to marry at 18 but then found the courage to leave him at 20 because it wasn’t working out. She continued to study and even did a few years at University (though eye problems forced her to quit) and stayed single and working. She now runs the media centre at the post office, she is active in several organisations mostly in health, but also the young girls group which she founded. She is a strong, independent woman and a good role model for the girls. It gives me some hope for Aminatou that even if the marriage does go through, not all will be lost. I just hope that whatever happens she will find a way to be happy.

The Bogo experience

Reflexions on life and death

The mother sat stone still. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t shed a tear. The other women around her made small chitchat. I believe they were just there to keep her company and to distract her from her grieving. In watching a funeral here, an outsider might think that people become numb to the pain; that there is so much death and loss here, particularly of children, that people don’t take it as hard because they are used to it. I don’t think that is true. I think that people all grieve the same even if outwardly they don’t always show it.

Les funérailles chrétiennes, quoique similaires à la surface à celles des musulmans, ont une importante différence, la famille du décédé sert du « vin » local à tous les visiteurs.  C’est-à-dire qu’il y a plus de vielles matantes et vieux mononcles soules qui racontent je ne sais quoi dans leur patois. Moi, je n’ai jamais su ce qu’on devrait dire à quelqu’un qui vient de perdre un proche, alors je me tais. C’est facile à faire puisque les gens supposent que je ne connais pas la langue de toute façon, mais les funérailles ici sont une affaire très sociale ou tous les membres d’une famille se réunissent après de longs moments. Souvent ils se déplacent de très loin, des villages à plusieurs kilomètres (loin, surtout pour ceux qui viennent à pied). Pour certains, surtout les femmes, les funérailles et les mariages sont les seuls occasions qu’elles ont pour sortir de la maison et socialiser. Les funérailles durent trois jours avec les visiteurs qui vont et viennent et d’autres qui restent. Tout le monde est assis dehors, les femmes d’un côté, les hommes de l’autres. Les femmes servent le vin.

I’ve assisted two funerals in the three days. One for my 3 year old neighbour who passed away suddenly after falling sick a couple days ago and one for my friend’s cousin who swallowed poison after getting in a fight with his brother (In the past three years, the uncle has lost three children, this one being the third). The real tragedy in both of these deaths is that had they had access to proper medical facilities, it is likely that both deaths could have been prevented. In the boy’s case, if the sickness had been detected, properly diagnosed and treated on time, he may have recovered (my understanding is he died of malaria).  As for the cousin, he was taken to the hospital, but there were no doctors present (as far as I know, there are never any doctors there, if you have an emergency you’re out of luck). Some attendants did what they could (who knows what kind of training they have) but he died shortly after. Afterward, the family asked the ambulance driver if he could help transport the body, only to be told that he didn’t even have the keys! The ambulance was given about a month ago as a vote-winning gift to the hospital but what use is an ambulance if the driver doesn’t have the keys?

Il est souvent dit que l’hôpital de Bogo est un lieu ou les gens vont pour mourir, pas pour guérir. Ici, ce ne sont pas les malades qui vont à l’hôpital, mais les morts. Ce sont des blagues sinistres, mais qui cachent une vérité tragique. Le développement ne se mesure pas selon le GNP d’un pays, sa richesse économique ou son taux d’emplois.  Je crois que le vrai développement signifie l’accès médical et la santé pour tous. Si on veut avoir une vraie idée du niveau de développement dans un pays ont devrait se demander : Combien d’enfants moins de cinq meurent à toutes les années? Combien de personnes meurent de maladies comme la malaria et le choléra qui pourraient être prévenues avec une bonne  éducation,  de l’accès à l’eau potable, des latrines sanitaires et  des traitements accessibles? Si la réponse est ???????????????????????????? c’est sous-développé.

I have been very privileged in that I haven’t suffered much loss in my lifetime. Death hasn’t been very active or present in my life- something for which I am grateful, but am also made more aware of now that I am surrounded by people for whom death is a frequent visitor. If you talk to anyone here, they will tell you they have lost a child, a sister, a father, a cousin, an aunt and probably more than one. Granted people here have large extended families and many people don’t differentiate between cousins and brothers (they don’t have a word for cousins but refer to them as their brothers and sisters born to their uncle or aunt). Going to a funeral is probably the number one excuse people have for not showing up at a meeting (followed closely behind by going to a wedding). But the fact that it happens more often here doesn’t make it easier to bear, though they do seem to know how to cope. I’ve been to several funerals since my arrival here and have only witnessed one person crying, but I don’t think that it hurts any less. Maybe, they’re just better at hiding it, either that or I’m not looking in the right place.

First school day - Première journée d'école

7:30 – Start of classes at l’école Bogo-Sirataré. Myself and three students are present.

7:45 – Arrivée d’un enseignant

8:30 – Arrivée du directeur et plusieurs enfants.

9 :00 – One more teacher and many more students arrive.

Total for the morning: 1 principal, 2 teachers out of 13, and lots of kids with nothing to do and no one to teach them.

Deuxième journée

8 :00 – Start of classes at l’école Mororo. One teacher, 6 kids and the principal are present. When we pass again an hour later there is still no one else.

Same day at l’école Zalao only the principal showed up. Not even the cows came.

On m’avait prévenu que la rentrée scolaire ici serait “timide” mais j’étais très déçue par ce que j’ai vu la première semaine d’école. Les excuses sont nombreuses. Du côté des enseignants et des directeurs, ils blâment les élèves et les parents en disant que les enfants ne viennent jamais la première semaine. De l’autre côté, les parents et les enfants refusent d’y aller parce qu’ils disent que les enseignants ne viennent jamais.

It’s a vicious cycle where the teachers don’t go to school because they say the students won’t show up and the kids don’t come because they know the teachers won’t be there. But it isn’t just people not showing up, it’s also the school materials. As one school principal explained, each school should receive a minimum package of updated manuals, textbooks, small chalkboards, pencils and chalk at the beginning of the school year, but it never comes on time. If it did arrive, then teachers could motivate kids to come the first week by handing out school materials to the first to arrive. As it is, this principal saves up leftover materials from last year to reward kids for coming to school the first week so that they won’t be discouraged. One of the fears is that if teachers don’t show up, the kids will get bored, go home and not bother to come back. It takes so much effort to convince parents in the first place to send their kids to school that any delinquency on behalf of teachers can represent a major setback.

L’un des problèmes qui empêchent les enseignants et les élèves de faire une bonne rentrée à l’automne c’est que le département d’éducation affecte les enseignants seulement une semaine avant le début des cours. C’est-à-dire que les enseignants apprennent seulement là ou ils seront affectés à la dernière minute. Pour ceux qui viennent des régions du sud ceci représente un problème. Souvent, les sudistes n’aiment pas beaucoup travailler dans l’extrême-nord. Souvent ils sont séparés de leur famille et placés dans des écoles de brousses ou les conditions d’enseignements sont difficiles. Selon les témoignages d’autres enseignants, les sudistes rentrent souvent 2 à 3 semaines en retard à leur poste et d’habitude vont quittés pour les vacances plus tôt.

Normally there are consequences for teachers who do not show up for school, but they are rarely enforced. Already the school days are short and the school week is only four days in practice because children and teachers frequently miss school on market days (Thursdays). Add to that, that any time a teacher is sick kids go home because there is no one to fill in including cases of long term illnesses or even pregnancies.

Après tout ça, est-ce qu’on se demande encore pourquoi le niveau d’éducation ici est si faible??

I just hope to see an improvement next week, with a few more teachers and students attending school.