Time is something here that’s taken me a bit of getting used to. The Cameroonian (dare I saw “African”? I’m not sure it’s similar continent-wide) way of looking at time is incredibly different than my western, American way. I’ll try to describe some of the differences.
Well, for starters, people here are almost always late. I don’t mean like a number of people are consistently showing up 5 minutes late to meetings, I mean people don’t even start showing up most of the time until 45 minutes after it was supposed to start. I’m usually about 10-15 minutes late every Saturday for soccer practice and most of the time I’m one of the first five people to arrive. Another time, I was trying to hold a food security workshop for local women in community groups. It was supposed to be at a conference room at the mayor’s office and was also supposed to start at 8:30. Well, we told everyone to get there at 8 o’clock sharp and, sure enough, by 8:30 there was only 3 people there. (That turned out lucky, though, because my collaborator couldn’t show up until much later.) Finally around 10 we started, though most people had shown up by around 9:30.
I have a running joke with the doctor at the hospital about time. When he tells me a time to meet him somewhere I always immediately ask him, “Is that WMT or BMT?” Those acronyms stand for White Man Time and Black Man Time. White man time invariably means that if you show up one minute late: you’re late. Black man time means that you can show up sometime in the general vicinity of the given time, usually about 30 minutes late. (Side note: Those two phrases aren’t nearly as racist as everyone in the US ais probably thinking. Nope. In Cameroonian English and culture they don’t refer to Americans or Europeans as foreigners that often, instead we become “white man”—even the women—and any African is “black man.”)
The doctor frequently asks me if we can make our time “more elastic” when he’s running late, which is something I got a bit frustrated with at first. “Why tell me to be here at 7:30 if we won’t leave until 9?” I’d think. Eventually, though, I just learned to be patient. I’d shrug my shoulders, sit down, and people watch while waiting for him. I mean, most of the time I had nothing else to do, so why should I be rushed?
When I first arrived here, I didn’t really understand why people are so habitually late. Is it because of laziness? Is it because nobody wants to waste their time when everyone else is going to be late as well? Is it because nobody respects other people’s time? I think all of these reasons have potentially some degree of validity, but I also think it goes deeper than that. I believe now that Cameroonians just have a vastly different outlook on time and, consequently, life than most Americans.
In our western worldview, we tend to look at time as something fixed, as something that exists and, to a large extent, we follow. We tell people we’ll see them at a certain time, we want to watch a particular TV show at another time, we have to be at work no later than yet another time. In doing this, we kind of let time control us. Sure, we can make a decision to do something at a specific time, but then we pretty much have to plan everything else around it and be held captive or simply blow it off with the full knowledge that we missed out on something or inconvenienced somebody else.
Cameroonians look at time in a different way. Instead of being controlled by time, they look at it as something that you control, or something to disregard. Meeting at 4? Well, I’m not going to drop everything to go to it. I’ll finish what I’m doing, take care of myself and then show up when I show up. Will it be a bother to somebody if I’m not there at the time we agreed upon? Probably not, he’s probably doing the same thing. Instead of living by the clock like many Americans do, Cameroonians just live and act how they want to and often look at the time as an afterthought.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Haggling 101
Here is a brief, introductory guide for how to haggle for goods and services at a market in Cameroon. I have compiled and perfected the method after many months (years, even) of trial and error until eventually it’s more of a game than actually an exchange of goods. Take note, and enjoy.
Step one: Walking through the market and greeting people
While strolling through the market, you should first and foremost wander as close to the middle of the street as possible. (I use the word street because it’s easiest. Other interchangeable words could include: alley, passageway, aisle, or human parking lot.) If you see a friend of yours walking the other way, step off to the side, shake their hand, and exchange greetings. How is the family? The house? How are your kids? By asking these important questions, the vendors in the market will realize that you are not a foreigner here and know the community enough to at least ask an acquaintance how they are doing. This will help later on when the haggling for a price actually starts. After a minute or so of discussing, bid your friend a good day, step back into the middle of the street, and continue on your way. If you are friends with any boutique owners, do the same with them.
Step two: Concealing desire or need
After you’ve been walking through the market for a short time, and after having greeted several people, you can ease up and start looking around for whatever it is you came here for. Whether it be mangoes, soccer jerseys, powdered milk, or a new machete, it is very important to not seem over anxious. Maintain a relaxed countenance—wearing sunglasses helps. Once you spot something you are interested in, leisurely make your way over to the shop (or stand or ground space as the case may be). If the proprietor was not already calling you over and was possibly busy with somebody else, wait until he acknowledges you. If this is perhaps a market in the southern part of Cameroon, or in a bigger city in the north, chances are people were shouting at you from half a block away to come to their shop and buy soap, bouillon cube, or bicycle parts. Unless there are no other options, ignore these shop owners. They know you are a foreigner and will be difficult to argue with.
Back to the first type of shop owner. Greet this man. Shake his hand. Say at least a few words in his dialect and, if you are capable, go through all the greetings and then even ask him for what you want in the local language. Ideally, he will be grateful that you learned the local language, but he will also know that you know a bit about the culture and will not be duped so easily. This is also why it helps to be spotted greeting friends or acquaintances of yours in the market. If vendors see that you know people around they will also be less likely to try to milk a few extra pennies from you. Once you have told him what you wanted, the real test begins.
Step three: Make a game out of it
The owner of the boutique will likely start at a price that is far too high. How high the price is depends on several factors: how many foreigners come through the market (more=much higher), how well you followed the previous two steps, and how well you know the owner—or rather how well he knows you. If the original price the owner gives is the actual price (or something very close to it), try not to be surprised. This has happened roughly eight times in the last thirty years, so don’t count on it. If you are lucky enough to experience the ninth time, however, buy the good under question at once, thank the man a lot, and also offer to buy him a cup of tea or a mango if there is a kid walking around selling either of them. This way, the owner will always give you the correct price right off the bat, and that will save you money and time.
Most of the time, though, you will be given a price that is ridiculously high. The first thing you do is act like you didn’t quite understand the person. Repeat the price in either the dialect or in French, with a big question mark at the end. Act incredulous: start laughing, and looking around to see if other people are noticing. If they are, ask them if the man you are talking to is a comedian or if he is crazy. The owner will probably be asking you what you want to pay for it at that time and trying to shut down the outside conversation. He will try to regain control over the situation. Don’t let him, make him wait. Talk to other vendors and people walking by and joke around with them that you didn’t know a new comedian was around, and maybe you should take him to (insert closest big city) to perform his act and maybe even go on television.
After some time discrediting the original price, ask the man if he needs to go to the hospital. Sometimes they will not understand what you mean by this. Explain that because of the crazy price you know that he is either one of two things: a very funny man who should be using his talents across the country to make people laugh, or a crazy man who has escaped from a psychiatric clinic and you’d like to take him back. He may be starting to tire from the joking around so now it is your turn to offer a counter price.
Step four: The counter offer
If the man started you off with an incredibly high price, it is 100% okay to low ball him that way. If he’s insulting your cultural intelligence with a stupid price, insult his back. But don’t be mean or vengeful about it. Always have a smile on your face that says “Don’t treat me like that, I know what I’m doing.” If the price wasn’t too astronomically high, though, it is proper to give a counter offer in the same ball park. Make sure to keep it as a game. Nobody likes when tensions rise, and keep in mind that the person is usually not trying to insult you or take advantage of you being a foreigner, they’re just trying to make a living.
Sometimes they will shake their heads if you’re counter offer is pretty low. They will start to put the shirt or goat back. This is when you put your hand on their shoulder in a friendly way and say “what is this, we don’t argue in a market?” Maybe they’ll pout and say something like “not like that” or “it doesn’t leave the house like that.” Well, you tell them that it’s the market and they should then come down to their next price.
Step five: The negotiation
You will go back and forth several times with the prices. Sometimes the vendor will tell you that even he didn’t buy the goods for that price. 99% of the time, this is a lie. I know this because I have gotten good for far under what some people have said they bought it for.
If the person is jerking you around and not coming down enough, one thing you can do is to stick with your price and tell him you won’t go any higher. Maybe they’ll get angry. Keep your cool. If the person is really not going to change their shifty ways and won’t give you a good price on something, come up a little more (maybe 200-500 cfa) and then say that’s your last price. When you say it’s your last price they will either do one of two things: they’ll stare at you and then place the goods back on the shelf (sometimes a bluff), or they’ll start dropping their price immensely, though still trying to get you to dish out a little more money. Whatever you do, stick to your price after you state your final price. If you come up from that, they know you can come up some more.
Step six: The purchase, or walking away
Once you have come to an agreement, give the man your money while they put the dried fish or tupperware in a plastic bag, and many times double or even triple-bag it. Never try to tell somebody that you don’t want a plastic bag because you either have so many at the house or because they are wasteful and bad for the environment. This is poor judgment on your part because the vendor will think you are crazy for not wanting a plastic bag, thereby possibly raising the price they will charge you next time.
If you haven’t come to an agreement, though, reiterate your last price one more time and walk away. You have to be prepared to lose it, though, or to start the negotiation somewhere else with somebody else. Because if the vendor does not call you back (which sometimes they will do as you are halfway across the market) and you come back to buy the goods from him, he will charge you even more than he said he was before, because he knows you want and need it.
Step one: Walking through the market and greeting people
While strolling through the market, you should first and foremost wander as close to the middle of the street as possible. (I use the word street because it’s easiest. Other interchangeable words could include: alley, passageway, aisle, or human parking lot.) If you see a friend of yours walking the other way, step off to the side, shake their hand, and exchange greetings. How is the family? The house? How are your kids? By asking these important questions, the vendors in the market will realize that you are not a foreigner here and know the community enough to at least ask an acquaintance how they are doing. This will help later on when the haggling for a price actually starts. After a minute or so of discussing, bid your friend a good day, step back into the middle of the street, and continue on your way. If you are friends with any boutique owners, do the same with them.
Step two: Concealing desire or need
After you’ve been walking through the market for a short time, and after having greeted several people, you can ease up and start looking around for whatever it is you came here for. Whether it be mangoes, soccer jerseys, powdered milk, or a new machete, it is very important to not seem over anxious. Maintain a relaxed countenance—wearing sunglasses helps. Once you spot something you are interested in, leisurely make your way over to the shop (or stand or ground space as the case may be). If the proprietor was not already calling you over and was possibly busy with somebody else, wait until he acknowledges you. If this is perhaps a market in the southern part of Cameroon, or in a bigger city in the north, chances are people were shouting at you from half a block away to come to their shop and buy soap, bouillon cube, or bicycle parts. Unless there are no other options, ignore these shop owners. They know you are a foreigner and will be difficult to argue with.
Back to the first type of shop owner. Greet this man. Shake his hand. Say at least a few words in his dialect and, if you are capable, go through all the greetings and then even ask him for what you want in the local language. Ideally, he will be grateful that you learned the local language, but he will also know that you know a bit about the culture and will not be duped so easily. This is also why it helps to be spotted greeting friends or acquaintances of yours in the market. If vendors see that you know people around they will also be less likely to try to milk a few extra pennies from you. Once you have told him what you wanted, the real test begins.
Step three: Make a game out of it
The owner of the boutique will likely start at a price that is far too high. How high the price is depends on several factors: how many foreigners come through the market (more=much higher), how well you followed the previous two steps, and how well you know the owner—or rather how well he knows you. If the original price the owner gives is the actual price (or something very close to it), try not to be surprised. This has happened roughly eight times in the last thirty years, so don’t count on it. If you are lucky enough to experience the ninth time, however, buy the good under question at once, thank the man a lot, and also offer to buy him a cup of tea or a mango if there is a kid walking around selling either of them. This way, the owner will always give you the correct price right off the bat, and that will save you money and time.
Most of the time, though, you will be given a price that is ridiculously high. The first thing you do is act like you didn’t quite understand the person. Repeat the price in either the dialect or in French, with a big question mark at the end. Act incredulous: start laughing, and looking around to see if other people are noticing. If they are, ask them if the man you are talking to is a comedian or if he is crazy. The owner will probably be asking you what you want to pay for it at that time and trying to shut down the outside conversation. He will try to regain control over the situation. Don’t let him, make him wait. Talk to other vendors and people walking by and joke around with them that you didn’t know a new comedian was around, and maybe you should take him to (insert closest big city) to perform his act and maybe even go on television.
After some time discrediting the original price, ask the man if he needs to go to the hospital. Sometimes they will not understand what you mean by this. Explain that because of the crazy price you know that he is either one of two things: a very funny man who should be using his talents across the country to make people laugh, or a crazy man who has escaped from a psychiatric clinic and you’d like to take him back. He may be starting to tire from the joking around so now it is your turn to offer a counter price.
Step four: The counter offer
If the man started you off with an incredibly high price, it is 100% okay to low ball him that way. If he’s insulting your cultural intelligence with a stupid price, insult his back. But don’t be mean or vengeful about it. Always have a smile on your face that says “Don’t treat me like that, I know what I’m doing.” If the price wasn’t too astronomically high, though, it is proper to give a counter offer in the same ball park. Make sure to keep it as a game. Nobody likes when tensions rise, and keep in mind that the person is usually not trying to insult you or take advantage of you being a foreigner, they’re just trying to make a living.
Sometimes they will shake their heads if you’re counter offer is pretty low. They will start to put the shirt or goat back. This is when you put your hand on their shoulder in a friendly way and say “what is this, we don’t argue in a market?” Maybe they’ll pout and say something like “not like that” or “it doesn’t leave the house like that.” Well, you tell them that it’s the market and they should then come down to their next price.
Step five: The negotiation
You will go back and forth several times with the prices. Sometimes the vendor will tell you that even he didn’t buy the goods for that price. 99% of the time, this is a lie. I know this because I have gotten good for far under what some people have said they bought it for.
If the person is jerking you around and not coming down enough, one thing you can do is to stick with your price and tell him you won’t go any higher. Maybe they’ll get angry. Keep your cool. If the person is really not going to change their shifty ways and won’t give you a good price on something, come up a little more (maybe 200-500 cfa) and then say that’s your last price. When you say it’s your last price they will either do one of two things: they’ll stare at you and then place the goods back on the shelf (sometimes a bluff), or they’ll start dropping their price immensely, though still trying to get you to dish out a little more money. Whatever you do, stick to your price after you state your final price. If you come up from that, they know you can come up some more.
Step six: The purchase, or walking away
Once you have come to an agreement, give the man your money while they put the dried fish or tupperware in a plastic bag, and many times double or even triple-bag it. Never try to tell somebody that you don’t want a plastic bag because you either have so many at the house or because they are wasteful and bad for the environment. This is poor judgment on your part because the vendor will think you are crazy for not wanting a plastic bag, thereby possibly raising the price they will charge you next time.
If you haven’t come to an agreement, though, reiterate your last price one more time and walk away. You have to be prepared to lose it, though, or to start the negotiation somewhere else with somebody else. Because if the vendor does not call you back (which sometimes they will do as you are halfway across the market) and you come back to buy the goods from him, he will charge you even more than he said he was before, because he knows you want and need it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
High time for a post
Well, it certainly has been a minute since my last post. (Sorry about the video not uploading, too. I'm not sure I know a way to do so, any advice is welcome.) Things have been going pretty smooth as of late. I survived another hot season and this one was a bit rougher than the last. I was in a three day conference in Garoua during March that literally made me sick to my stomach. After lunch one day I almost got up to excuse myself because I thought I was going to be sick. I've got a few ideas as to why it might have been worse. The first is that I remember last year feeling like "hey, this is really hot but I'm not dying or anything." I don't know that it was any hotter this year than last year, but I think remembering it as not too bad last year was my first mistake. Also, I spend a good chunk of time in the grand south last April, at the height of the heat. Furthermore, we had a huge dust storm that rolled through last year and cooled everything off for about 10-14 days. This dust storm was so big and strong that some cities in the Far North region actually had to shut down business for several days because people couldn't see 5 feet in front of themselves. Lastly, people said this year that the hot season started earlier than last year. That point is debatable, though, as I remember it being pretty hot early on last year, and I also remember people saying last year that the hot season was early. My guess is that the hot season never comes late enough.
At the end of April this year I went down to Yaounde for a couple days for a committee meeting and then went to the West and Northwest to hang out with a few volunteer friends. It was a pretty sweet gig as I got to visit my buddy Henry in his pretty small village in the West and then I went up to Kumbo in the Anglophone Northwest. Kumbo is a fantastic city of around 150,000 making it the Northwest's second city. While there I had a great time eating some good Soya (like shishkabob beef) drinking beer at a bar with a second story balcony, and then also eating of the best chickens of my life at a restaurant called "Casa Blanca." The owner, Casa, is a Nigerian who makes a special variety of the Northwestern dish Chicken Didji, which is like boiled Chicken that is then fried with carrots, onions, garlic, and Casa's secret ingredient: loads of curry. Fantastic meal. Patrick, Jake, and I also went to a pretty awesome death celebration for this former big man in the government. Loads of dancing, shot guns being fired off, palm wine, and traditional masks and clothing.
Due to some transportation problems, I also stopped in Bamenda, the capital of the Northwest, on the way back to Yaounde. Saw a bunch of the volunteers in the area then and also had the closest imitation I've had to a cafe latte since being in Denmark last summer.
Since I got back to the North, I've been mostly focusing on trying to get some projects off the ground, and also saying goodbye to a good number of the volunteers who are peaceing out. The projects I've been working on are getting some Soy/tofu cooking classes going, HIV/AIDS testing, a food security conference scheduled for the first weekend in August, and I was also trying to do some work treating malnutrition for a while. Though that last project kind of fell apart as the hospital in Ngong never received the necessary supplements to give to the pregnant women we found who were at risk of being malnourished.
I also got a pretty wicked case of Malaria a couple weeks ago. I was laid out for a good two days and still pretty tired and sore for a few more days after that. Luckily, it was only my first one here (the French guy in my town has had it like at least 10 times) and it will hopefully be my last. No need to worry now, though, as I'm all better. I even scored a goal in our weekly soccer game on Saturday. So, maybe, the malaria made me get into even better form....
At the end of April this year I went down to Yaounde for a couple days for a committee meeting and then went to the West and Northwest to hang out with a few volunteer friends. It was a pretty sweet gig as I got to visit my buddy Henry in his pretty small village in the West and then I went up to Kumbo in the Anglophone Northwest. Kumbo is a fantastic city of around 150,000 making it the Northwest's second city. While there I had a great time eating some good Soya (like shishkabob beef) drinking beer at a bar with a second story balcony, and then also eating of the best chickens of my life at a restaurant called "Casa Blanca." The owner, Casa, is a Nigerian who makes a special variety of the Northwestern dish Chicken Didji, which is like boiled Chicken that is then fried with carrots, onions, garlic, and Casa's secret ingredient: loads of curry. Fantastic meal. Patrick, Jake, and I also went to a pretty awesome death celebration for this former big man in the government. Loads of dancing, shot guns being fired off, palm wine, and traditional masks and clothing.
Due to some transportation problems, I also stopped in Bamenda, the capital of the Northwest, on the way back to Yaounde. Saw a bunch of the volunteers in the area then and also had the closest imitation I've had to a cafe latte since being in Denmark last summer.
Since I got back to the North, I've been mostly focusing on trying to get some projects off the ground, and also saying goodbye to a good number of the volunteers who are peaceing out. The projects I've been working on are getting some Soy/tofu cooking classes going, HIV/AIDS testing, a food security conference scheduled for the first weekend in August, and I was also trying to do some work treating malnutrition for a while. Though that last project kind of fell apart as the hospital in Ngong never received the necessary supplements to give to the pregnant women we found who were at risk of being malnourished.
I also got a pretty wicked case of Malaria a couple weeks ago. I was laid out for a good two days and still pretty tired and sore for a few more days after that. Luckily, it was only my first one here (the French guy in my town has had it like at least 10 times) and it will hopefully be my last. No need to worry now, though, as I'm all better. I even scored a goal in our weekly soccer game on Saturday. So, maybe, the malaria made me get into even better form....
Monday, February 7, 2011
VCN Souvenirs 2010
Here's a video the French guy in Ngong (Baudouin) made to re-cap 2010 for the Veteran's Club of Ngong. The first part is about our trip to Mogode, so I figured I'd post that and then people can see photos of Mogode, Rhumsiki, and then also check out some other things we've been doing.
Also, I have an idea to get the basketball court in Ngong paved. Basketball is quickly becoming a huge international sport but unfortunately our court in town at the high school is just sand (some of it pretty soft sand). Anyway, I figured I'd throw this out there and see if anybody knows international organizations or grant opportunities that fund sports-related endeavors such as this in Africa. If you know anything
about it, please let me know!
Cheers.
Also, I have an idea to get the basketball court in Ngong paved. Basketball is quickly becoming a huge international sport but unfortunately our court in town at the high school is just sand (some of it pretty soft sand). Anyway, I figured I'd throw this out there and see if anybody knows international organizations or grant opportunities that fund sports-related endeavors such as this in Africa. If you know anything
about it, please let me know!
Cheers.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Mogode, Part IV: It's hard to order bilbil when we don't share one word in common.
So we headed out from Mogode, and got on the dusty path south towards Rhumsiki. The road ran along the east side of a valley and on the other side? Nigeria. As we drove along the scenery, which was already quite stunning, became increasingly bizarre and beautiful. (Unfortunately, I don't have any photos of it with me right now, I'll try to post some more from this whole trip on my next post). Towering volcanic plugs stuck out of the ground at seemingly random places, mammoth cliffs rose up and then descended just as quickly. We stopped a couple time to take some photos, and then again right outside of Rhumsiki at the top of a hill where we could see the town, a couple mountains, and a gigantic volcanic plug. Pretty crazy stuff. When I busted out my camera, everyone insisted that I take their photo, so now I have about 15 photos of people from my soccer club on my camera, and I'm a little hazy with some of their names.
We got into Mogode and pulled up to a hotel where we were told we had an hour to go around and check things out. Well, at this hotel there was actually a pool overlooking the big valley and the volcanic plug. Beautiful stuff, but Baudouin (the french guy) and I decided to walk around town instead and explore a little bit. We didn't want to sit at the nice, Western tourist hotel with a pool in the middle of nowhere. Why did this place even have a pool? I'm positive no local from the area could actually afford the price (1500 cfa) to swim there. We walked through some neighborhoods and came out to one outlook and marveled at it for a little bit. Some kid carrying around a bunch of trinkets and shoddy, 80's-style post cards came up to us and quite politely, though insistently, told us we needed a guide, a tell-tale sign that you're in a touristy area. Well, Baudouin looked at the kid and said "Oh my, you don't see me guide? He's standing right here!" At which point I said "What is this? You don't know me? How can you not know me, I live here!" The kid got pretty confused and rather than trying to argue the merits or our statements, kept insisting that we needed a guide. After a couple minutes of playing around with him we started walking away back to the main road. So, naturally, he followed us. We stopped after about 50 feet, told him, "Thank you for the offer but we don't want a guide." He just looked at us and we started walking again, so he did, too. After a few steps we stopped again and Baudouin asked him, "So you understand French, right? We don't want a guide. Please leave us alone." He again insisted that I didn't know where the good things to see in town where but he could show us for a small fee. I then looked at Baudouin and spoke my first words in English in a couple days and said, "Do you think we should just throw a rock at him?" I was joking but man was it a bad time to realize the kid spoke some English, too, because then he started hounding us in broken English about needing a guide. We cut him off and got pretty firm with him and asked him where he was going. He said into town, so we told him "Go then." As he started to speak again, we just kept cutting him off and telling him to basically get lost. He walked about 20 feet, stopped and turned around but we kept motioning for him to continue. Once he was out of site, we started walking again and took a different path to the market.
We got to the market and after walking around for a few minutes I looked at Baudouin and said "It's the same stuff as in Ngong." He responded that he was thinking the exact same thing. We found the bilbil (traditional millet wine/beer) market and then asked one guy who was standing there with his son if he knew a woman who made good bilbil. He led us to one mama's stand and we sat down and playfully asked her if her bilbil was any good. She was somewhat older with facial scarring and tattoos stretching from her forehead to her chin and she was wearing a really bright, intricately designed panye (flashy african fabric) dress. She looked at us blankly after the question so we then asked if we could have some bilbil. Again the blank look. So then I switched to fulfulde, and again she just looked at us and then at the guy who led us there. He then started rattling off in what I can only imagine was Kapsiki and she gave us two wooden bowls of bilbil. (Side note on Kapsiki: ever wonder what Mandarin, Greek, and Housa sound like when mixed together? Kapsiki!) We drank our bowls, thanked the mama, paid, and left. I don't remember the bilbil being particularly good, but we were a little afraid of the recent Cholera epidemic around to go bilbil hopping and try everyone's different brew.
We started walking back towards the hotel and ran across some veterans in a little boutique. I bought a bottle of water (100 cfa more than normal--another touristy sign) and even saw some post cards. How did Rhumsiki become such a tourist destination? Sure, the landscape is really pretty but the town itself is pretty unimpressive and the level of harassment you get from kids demanding pens, 25 cfa, and to be your guide was really annoying. And again back to the pool: why was there a pool in the middle of nowhere?! Bah. I'm glad I went to Rhumsiki, but I don't know that I'll be going back any time soon. Beautiful? yes. A bit of a tourist trap? yes.
Anyway, we got back to the hotel where a few people had gone swimming and a couple others were eating a meal. Somebody had even gone to get his fortune told by the "crab talkers," a group of guys who talk to little sand crabs and apparently can predict your future. Eventually we piled back into the bus, some people grabbed some beers for the road, and we headed out.
About twenty minutes in, one of the veterans pulled out a box of condoms and started tossing them around the bus. Why? Don't ask me. Well, about a minute later, an empty Guiness bottle started being passed around the bus and what was on the top? An unrolled condom. I feel like that kind of sums up the veteran's club of ngong: empty beer bottles and unused condoms.
The ride back was pretty long, but once we got back onto the pavement in Mokolo things were a bit easier. By the time we got to Figuil, though, I was uber-tired and basically a walking zombie. I ate a little bit of meat, a couple beignets, and drank a soda and actually felt a bit better. With the late breakfast and the walking around in Rhumsiki, I'd forgotten to eat lunch, and judging by the general energy level I think many people had. Well, once we were about 45 minutes outside of Garoua, we started singing. We went through so many celebratory and festive songs that everyone's spirits were lifted. We stopped for a few minutes in Garoua to drop somebody off and then continued on to Ngong where we threw open the windows and let anybody who was near the road know that we were back and in very good spirits.
Home, sweet home.
We got into Mogode and pulled up to a hotel where we were told we had an hour to go around and check things out. Well, at this hotel there was actually a pool overlooking the big valley and the volcanic plug. Beautiful stuff, but Baudouin (the french guy) and I decided to walk around town instead and explore a little bit. We didn't want to sit at the nice, Western tourist hotel with a pool in the middle of nowhere. Why did this place even have a pool? I'm positive no local from the area could actually afford the price (1500 cfa) to swim there. We walked through some neighborhoods and came out to one outlook and marveled at it for a little bit. Some kid carrying around a bunch of trinkets and shoddy, 80's-style post cards came up to us and quite politely, though insistently, told us we needed a guide, a tell-tale sign that you're in a touristy area. Well, Baudouin looked at the kid and said "Oh my, you don't see me guide? He's standing right here!" At which point I said "What is this? You don't know me? How can you not know me, I live here!" The kid got pretty confused and rather than trying to argue the merits or our statements, kept insisting that we needed a guide. After a couple minutes of playing around with him we started walking away back to the main road. So, naturally, he followed us. We stopped after about 50 feet, told him, "Thank you for the offer but we don't want a guide." He just looked at us and we started walking again, so he did, too. After a few steps we stopped again and Baudouin asked him, "So you understand French, right? We don't want a guide. Please leave us alone." He again insisted that I didn't know where the good things to see in town where but he could show us for a small fee. I then looked at Baudouin and spoke my first words in English in a couple days and said, "Do you think we should just throw a rock at him?" I was joking but man was it a bad time to realize the kid spoke some English, too, because then he started hounding us in broken English about needing a guide. We cut him off and got pretty firm with him and asked him where he was going. He said into town, so we told him "Go then." As he started to speak again, we just kept cutting him off and telling him to basically get lost. He walked about 20 feet, stopped and turned around but we kept motioning for him to continue. Once he was out of site, we started walking again and took a different path to the market.
We got to the market and after walking around for a few minutes I looked at Baudouin and said "It's the same stuff as in Ngong." He responded that he was thinking the exact same thing. We found the bilbil (traditional millet wine/beer) market and then asked one guy who was standing there with his son if he knew a woman who made good bilbil. He led us to one mama's stand and we sat down and playfully asked her if her bilbil was any good. She was somewhat older with facial scarring and tattoos stretching from her forehead to her chin and she was wearing a really bright, intricately designed panye (flashy african fabric) dress. She looked at us blankly after the question so we then asked if we could have some bilbil. Again the blank look. So then I switched to fulfulde, and again she just looked at us and then at the guy who led us there. He then started rattling off in what I can only imagine was Kapsiki and she gave us two wooden bowls of bilbil. (Side note on Kapsiki: ever wonder what Mandarin, Greek, and Housa sound like when mixed together? Kapsiki!) We drank our bowls, thanked the mama, paid, and left. I don't remember the bilbil being particularly good, but we were a little afraid of the recent Cholera epidemic around to go bilbil hopping and try everyone's different brew.
We started walking back towards the hotel and ran across some veterans in a little boutique. I bought a bottle of water (100 cfa more than normal--another touristy sign) and even saw some post cards. How did Rhumsiki become such a tourist destination? Sure, the landscape is really pretty but the town itself is pretty unimpressive and the level of harassment you get from kids demanding pens, 25 cfa, and to be your guide was really annoying. And again back to the pool: why was there a pool in the middle of nowhere?! Bah. I'm glad I went to Rhumsiki, but I don't know that I'll be going back any time soon. Beautiful? yes. A bit of a tourist trap? yes.
Anyway, we got back to the hotel where a few people had gone swimming and a couple others were eating a meal. Somebody had even gone to get his fortune told by the "crab talkers," a group of guys who talk to little sand crabs and apparently can predict your future. Eventually we piled back into the bus, some people grabbed some beers for the road, and we headed out.
About twenty minutes in, one of the veterans pulled out a box of condoms and started tossing them around the bus. Why? Don't ask me. Well, about a minute later, an empty Guiness bottle started being passed around the bus and what was on the top? An unrolled condom. I feel like that kind of sums up the veteran's club of ngong: empty beer bottles and unused condoms.
The ride back was pretty long, but once we got back onto the pavement in Mokolo things were a bit easier. By the time we got to Figuil, though, I was uber-tired and basically a walking zombie. I ate a little bit of meat, a couple beignets, and drank a soda and actually felt a bit better. With the late breakfast and the walking around in Rhumsiki, I'd forgotten to eat lunch, and judging by the general energy level I think many people had. Well, once we were about 45 minutes outside of Garoua, we started singing. We went through so many celebratory and festive songs that everyone's spirits were lifted. We stopped for a few minutes in Garoua to drop somebody off and then continued on to Ngong where we threw open the windows and let anybody who was near the road know that we were back and in very good spirits.
Home, sweet home.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Trip to Mogode, Part III: Back With Avengeance
Well, the game was relatively uneventful. Amadou scored about 10 or 15 minutes in from a shot a third of the way down the field that just lofted in over the goalie's head (he was too far out). Mogode equalized at the start of the second half and I came in on the right wing a little bit after that. I fed a near-perfect ball to the president of our club, who was playing forward, but he bobbled it a bit and couldn't get a proper shot off. With about 5 minutes left to go, we took off two of our players and put in Rachel and Flo, the wives of two of our members, and the crowd went nuts. "Women playing on a man's soccer team? Incredible!!" I got moved around the field a bit as we frantically tried to see if we could knock in a winner. With a few minutes left (and the sun almost below the horizon) one of our defenders tripped up a Mogode striker who was on a fast break. Since he was the last defender and the only person left between the striker and the goal would have been the goalie, it should have been a red card. Thankfully, the ref just gave a free kick and to Team Mogode's complaints he said, essentially, "You're here for the brotherhood and to make friends! Not just to win!" Wise words.
So the match was a 1-1 tie. After the game we split up and went back to our respective houses to clean up. I took a bucket bath and Mbirama, the man of the house and my host, insisted that the water be heated up over the fire first. I tried for a while to persuade him that it wasn't necessary and I could shower with cold water with no problem. After a while, though, I just gave up. Sometimes it's better to accept the hospitality and be grateful, even if it's really not necessary. To top it off, the water was actually too hot! It wasn't necessarily burning but I was kind of uncomfortable at how hot it was.
Me and Mbirama wandered around Mogode a bit because I wanted to buy him a beer. Well, we went over to one bar and walked in and it looked like there was a little community group meeting happening. Everybody stared at me so I said "bonsoir." I could have broken the ice a little better with Fulfulde if we'd been somewhere else but this was Kapsiki country and people don't speak Fulfulde too much around there. We sat down and after some discussion we realized the bar was out of beer. Well fantastic. So we went to another bar down the street where they did have beer and a few other veterans were hanging out. Well, I didn't get to buy him a beer because he immediately paid for it. So much for trying to be a good guest, this guy was bending over backwards to be a good host.
We wandered over to the restaurant/community center/main bar in town where we were holding our party that night and eventually things got started. Mbirama was drinking beer like a fish and kept tagging along with me the whole time. I guess it was fine but I was enjoying talking with my friends and other members of the Mogode community as well. He even jumped right into my conversation with the Commandant of Yagoua (the general in charge of the troops in a big city in the extreme north) who was visiting his family here for the weekend by saying, "Hey, do you know me?" I kinda tried to keep my distance from Mbirama and circulated around to the other tables which was too bad because the Commandant I'd been talking to was really interesting. He even thought I was Canadian at first. I asked him if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he didn't get my joke.
Eventually we ate, some standard Cameroonian fare: shish-kabob style meat, grilled fish, ndole, rice, plantains, etc. It was pretty decent but by the time all of the food got out, some of it had become pretty cold. Naturally, because I'm a nasarra, I was one of the first people asked to go up and grab my portion. Again, this is a time where it's best to just accept it and move on, if you argue people will think you aren't grateful.
By this point it was beginning to get pretty chilly. Mogode is up at a higher elevation and gets pretty cold at night at some times during the year. This was one of those times. I was only wearing a short-sleeve shirt and my jeans. I got Amadou to let me wear this sleeveless hoodie he had which helped a little bit. Around 11ish, we did the standard thing where all the members get introduced and line up in front of everyone. "Et maintenant, nous avons Monsieur Harley, avec le Peace Corps." (And now we have Mr. Harley with Peace Corps.) It's pretty funny that certain people don't use the French translation of Peace Corps (Corps de la Paix) but instead on not only using the English name but also pronouncing the P and S at the end. C'mon guys, it's a French word to begin with.
I stayed for the first two obligatory dances and then Mbirama and I headed out, after I'd given him my free beer tickets so he didn't have to pay for the ones he'd been tossing back. I think I told people I had a headache (partially true) but really these types of Veterans parties get really boring for me and I was freezing. I went back and immediately hopped in to bed and went to sleep. I was a bit cold that night because I only had a sheet covering me but I managed and woke up a little after sun rise.
I went for a walk with Mbirama who wanted to go visit one of his friends who had been sick. Well, we got there and the guy immediately offered me a beer. As it was 8 AM I turned it down and instead asked for some tea. Mbirama took the beer and I was given a bit of tea and bread. After a few minutes Mbirama got up, left the room with his beer and left me with his friend who was just getting over malaria. That was a little bit awkward for a while because I think both of us felt obliged to make conversation. we were somewhat constrained because I was having some difficulties understanding the accent and he was having a hard time mustering the energy to speak after his bout with malaria. After about 10 minutes Mbirama came back and we took off back to his house.
We hung out for a little bit there, and I was getting impatient because the previous night I was told to arrive back at the restaurant place at 8AM for breakfast and then loading up for the long ride back to Ngong. Well, by now it was about 9. He kept insisting that I wait, be patient, he wanted to give me some breakfast. I was very grateful but the dude did not want to understand that I wanted to get back to where I was supposed to be. I know how bad this sounds, but his hospitality was starting to turn into a bit of a weight on my shoulders. Eventually I just said screw it, if the veterans need me, they'll call me, and I'll just wait here. Well, we had some meat in an oil-tomato sauce with bread and then they even got me a nescafe. Finally after that was done, I had some pictures taken with him and his family, and then we hopped on his moto to go to the restaurant. After we pull out a few feet he stops and says, I forgot something. Fantastic. Well, he went back into his compound and comes out with about a 10 kilo bag of unshelled peanuts. "It's a gift for you from me!" he told me.
I had some more breakfast at the restaurant and the veterans were slowly trickling in. Some were already on their second beer (it was about 10 am). I bought myself and Amadou a couple Djinos (like a fruity soda) and then for good measure I tried to buy Mbirama one too, but he asked to trade it for a beer. He had been so hospitable to me, even when it annoyed me, that I didn't really have the heart to tell him no. We gave some speeches to the Mogode members present about how grateful we were for the good time and how much we appreciated it. The president of the club said that we would actually be taking two buses back to Ngong, one for us and one for all of the babies they made that night. Holla.
So we loaded up the bus, hopped aboard, bid adieu to Mogode, and headed off to Rhumsiki, about 10 k down the road and a big tourist spot in Cameroon...
So the match was a 1-1 tie. After the game we split up and went back to our respective houses to clean up. I took a bucket bath and Mbirama, the man of the house and my host, insisted that the water be heated up over the fire first. I tried for a while to persuade him that it wasn't necessary and I could shower with cold water with no problem. After a while, though, I just gave up. Sometimes it's better to accept the hospitality and be grateful, even if it's really not necessary. To top it off, the water was actually too hot! It wasn't necessarily burning but I was kind of uncomfortable at how hot it was.
Me and Mbirama wandered around Mogode a bit because I wanted to buy him a beer. Well, we went over to one bar and walked in and it looked like there was a little community group meeting happening. Everybody stared at me so I said "bonsoir." I could have broken the ice a little better with Fulfulde if we'd been somewhere else but this was Kapsiki country and people don't speak Fulfulde too much around there. We sat down and after some discussion we realized the bar was out of beer. Well fantastic. So we went to another bar down the street where they did have beer and a few other veterans were hanging out. Well, I didn't get to buy him a beer because he immediately paid for it. So much for trying to be a good guest, this guy was bending over backwards to be a good host.
We wandered over to the restaurant/community center/main bar in town where we were holding our party that night and eventually things got started. Mbirama was drinking beer like a fish and kept tagging along with me the whole time. I guess it was fine but I was enjoying talking with my friends and other members of the Mogode community as well. He even jumped right into my conversation with the Commandant of Yagoua (the general in charge of the troops in a big city in the extreme north) who was visiting his family here for the weekend by saying, "Hey, do you know me?" I kinda tried to keep my distance from Mbirama and circulated around to the other tables which was too bad because the Commandant I'd been talking to was really interesting. He even thought I was Canadian at first. I asked him if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he didn't get my joke.
Eventually we ate, some standard Cameroonian fare: shish-kabob style meat, grilled fish, ndole, rice, plantains, etc. It was pretty decent but by the time all of the food got out, some of it had become pretty cold. Naturally, because I'm a nasarra, I was one of the first people asked to go up and grab my portion. Again, this is a time where it's best to just accept it and move on, if you argue people will think you aren't grateful.
By this point it was beginning to get pretty chilly. Mogode is up at a higher elevation and gets pretty cold at night at some times during the year. This was one of those times. I was only wearing a short-sleeve shirt and my jeans. I got Amadou to let me wear this sleeveless hoodie he had which helped a little bit. Around 11ish, we did the standard thing where all the members get introduced and line up in front of everyone. "Et maintenant, nous avons Monsieur Harley, avec le Peace Corps." (And now we have Mr. Harley with Peace Corps.) It's pretty funny that certain people don't use the French translation of Peace Corps (Corps de la Paix) but instead on not only using the English name but also pronouncing the P and S at the end. C'mon guys, it's a French word to begin with.
I stayed for the first two obligatory dances and then Mbirama and I headed out, after I'd given him my free beer tickets so he didn't have to pay for the ones he'd been tossing back. I think I told people I had a headache (partially true) but really these types of Veterans parties get really boring for me and I was freezing. I went back and immediately hopped in to bed and went to sleep. I was a bit cold that night because I only had a sheet covering me but I managed and woke up a little after sun rise.
I went for a walk with Mbirama who wanted to go visit one of his friends who had been sick. Well, we got there and the guy immediately offered me a beer. As it was 8 AM I turned it down and instead asked for some tea. Mbirama took the beer and I was given a bit of tea and bread. After a few minutes Mbirama got up, left the room with his beer and left me with his friend who was just getting over malaria. That was a little bit awkward for a while because I think both of us felt obliged to make conversation. we were somewhat constrained because I was having some difficulties understanding the accent and he was having a hard time mustering the energy to speak after his bout with malaria. After about 10 minutes Mbirama came back and we took off back to his house.
We hung out for a little bit there, and I was getting impatient because the previous night I was told to arrive back at the restaurant place at 8AM for breakfast and then loading up for the long ride back to Ngong. Well, by now it was about 9. He kept insisting that I wait, be patient, he wanted to give me some breakfast. I was very grateful but the dude did not want to understand that I wanted to get back to where I was supposed to be. I know how bad this sounds, but his hospitality was starting to turn into a bit of a weight on my shoulders. Eventually I just said screw it, if the veterans need me, they'll call me, and I'll just wait here. Well, we had some meat in an oil-tomato sauce with bread and then they even got me a nescafe. Finally after that was done, I had some pictures taken with him and his family, and then we hopped on his moto to go to the restaurant. After we pull out a few feet he stops and says, I forgot something. Fantastic. Well, he went back into his compound and comes out with about a 10 kilo bag of unshelled peanuts. "It's a gift for you from me!" he told me.
I had some more breakfast at the restaurant and the veterans were slowly trickling in. Some were already on their second beer (it was about 10 am). I bought myself and Amadou a couple Djinos (like a fruity soda) and then for good measure I tried to buy Mbirama one too, but he asked to trade it for a beer. He had been so hospitable to me, even when it annoyed me, that I didn't really have the heart to tell him no. We gave some speeches to the Mogode members present about how grateful we were for the good time and how much we appreciated it. The president of the club said that we would actually be taking two buses back to Ngong, one for us and one for all of the babies they made that night. Holla.
So we loaded up the bus, hopped aboard, bid adieu to Mogode, and headed off to Rhumsiki, about 10 k down the road and a big tourist spot in Cameroon...
Friday, December 10, 2010
Trip to Mogode, Part II: Open again for more Happiness!
Well, it was pretty smooth sailing after we left the old principal. We kept continuing north and a little bit before Maroua, we turned off onto the road to Mokolo. At that intersection, though, we stopped for a bit to wait for Baudouin, a French NGO worker who lives in Ngong and another fellow veteran, who was doing some work in Yagoua, a city in the Extreme North, but finished the day before so he could meet up and come with us. Well, I walked a little bit and grabbed a coke with Amadou and by the time we got back, Baudouin had arrived and we were ready to roll.
We hopped back in the car and took off. The next stop was Mokolo, a little over an hour from the turn off. The further west we drove, the more the scenery started looking like New Mexico’s. The vegetation became more sparse, the hills and mountains became a bit more jagged, and I started seeing some plants that looked incredibly similar to Mesquite trees. Maybe I was a little homesick, but I almost felt a sense of déjà vu from the sights of everything around.
In Mokolo we stopped for about 15 minutes to grab some street meat to tide us over until we got to Mogode. I didn’t see a whole lot of Mokolo but for some odd reason it reminded me a bit of Santa Fe. There was nothing incredibly nice or Santa Fe-y about it but for some reason I felt reminded of the city I was born in. I think a lot of it had to do with the fact that the scenery around it was so similar and the cities are about the same size (Mokolo might be a little bit bigger, actually).
The road after Mokolo was rough. The pavement ended with the town and so after that we had about 35 kilometers of beat, uneven dirt road. Also, it was getting pretty hot so we had the windows open, but that also allowed the dust to come streaming in through the windows. I covered my nose and mouth with my shirt but I was really wishing I had brought a handkerchief with me. Amadou, always the fashionista, kept his head and torso covered with a jacket and kept brushing the dust off so he wouldn’t get, or rather stay, dirty. Finally the president of the club turned around and said “Leave it Amadou! You’re just going to keep getting dusty, wait until we arrive!” At one point we were driving along the road and there was a shallow valley off to our left and a small mountain on the other side of it. Somebody turned to me and said, “See that? It’s Nigeria.” I answered with something like, “you mean those mountains a ways off?” “No,” he replied, “The bottom of that valley there.” I was literally a stone’s throw away from Nigeria. Literally.
Well, we pulled up to the outskirts of Mogode, a fairly small town (maybe around 10,000-15,000 is my guess) and some members of the veterans club met us there. We got out and took some photos and boy was the scenery pretty. Volcanic plugs and jagged mountains shooting up out of the arid landscape. Eesh it was nice. We drove into town and made a big convoy/tour with all the motos accompanying us. We drove all over town and then got to the sous-prefet’s (government official’s) house where we said hello and introduced ourselves.
After that, we went to the house of the president of the Mogode Veterans Club. We had a pretty decent lunch there and the mood was very festive. One veteran, Alioum, even busted out dancing randomly for a few seconds. I had a sprite (from Nigeria as we were so close) and underneath the cap it said “Open again for more happiness!” Drink more, Coca Cola says, Drink more.
At this point we all got our assignments for the night of where we were going to sleep. I got assigned to this Elementary school teacher’s house and so we left, hopped on his moto (with my helmet of course), and zipped over to his house. His accent was a bit hard for me to understand as he slurred his speech quite a bit, and I actually don’t think he was too terribly strong with French. As we were going over to his house I kept having to tell him I didn’t understand what he was saying and so when we got there he stumbled a bit in broken English and said that somebody had come to his house on Monday (it was a Saturday, remember) while he was at school and burned it down. His concession was the type with a number of separate small one and two-room huts and the only thing left of his were some scorched mud brick walls. All of the guy’s clothes were in there, along with his identity papers, bank papers, moto documents, in short: just about everything of material value of his, save the clothes on his back and his moto. It was at this point that I noticed a faint scent of whiskey of him. Later, somebody explained to me that the fire wasn’t an accident, somebody came and specifically burned it down. The guy told me that he had two wives and somebody guessed to me that one of the wives, or maybe a girlfriend, got jealous and came and burned it down. He did talk about the burning of his house quite a bit but he always came back to saying, “I have my health and my family is safe, so I thank God.” I guess it’s good to always keep a positive attitude.
Well, I put my stuff in the room I was going to stay in, and then headed over to the soccer field. A few people were already hanging out and stretching. I started warming up a little bit and people slowly started trickling in. It was starting to get kinda late, and we weren’t sure we’d have enough time for the game so rather than do a full warm up, we did a couple sprints across the field and then a few stretches. And then the game started….
We hopped back in the car and took off. The next stop was Mokolo, a little over an hour from the turn off. The further west we drove, the more the scenery started looking like New Mexico’s. The vegetation became more sparse, the hills and mountains became a bit more jagged, and I started seeing some plants that looked incredibly similar to Mesquite trees. Maybe I was a little homesick, but I almost felt a sense of déjà vu from the sights of everything around.
In Mokolo we stopped for about 15 minutes to grab some street meat to tide us over until we got to Mogode. I didn’t see a whole lot of Mokolo but for some odd reason it reminded me a bit of Santa Fe. There was nothing incredibly nice or Santa Fe-y about it but for some reason I felt reminded of the city I was born in. I think a lot of it had to do with the fact that the scenery around it was so similar and the cities are about the same size (Mokolo might be a little bit bigger, actually).
The road after Mokolo was rough. The pavement ended with the town and so after that we had about 35 kilometers of beat, uneven dirt road. Also, it was getting pretty hot so we had the windows open, but that also allowed the dust to come streaming in through the windows. I covered my nose and mouth with my shirt but I was really wishing I had brought a handkerchief with me. Amadou, always the fashionista, kept his head and torso covered with a jacket and kept brushing the dust off so he wouldn’t get, or rather stay, dirty. Finally the president of the club turned around and said “Leave it Amadou! You’re just going to keep getting dusty, wait until we arrive!” At one point we were driving along the road and there was a shallow valley off to our left and a small mountain on the other side of it. Somebody turned to me and said, “See that? It’s Nigeria.” I answered with something like, “you mean those mountains a ways off?” “No,” he replied, “The bottom of that valley there.” I was literally a stone’s throw away from Nigeria. Literally.
Well, we pulled up to the outskirts of Mogode, a fairly small town (maybe around 10,000-15,000 is my guess) and some members of the veterans club met us there. We got out and took some photos and boy was the scenery pretty. Volcanic plugs and jagged mountains shooting up out of the arid landscape. Eesh it was nice. We drove into town and made a big convoy/tour with all the motos accompanying us. We drove all over town and then got to the sous-prefet’s (government official’s) house where we said hello and introduced ourselves.
After that, we went to the house of the president of the Mogode Veterans Club. We had a pretty decent lunch there and the mood was very festive. One veteran, Alioum, even busted out dancing randomly for a few seconds. I had a sprite (from Nigeria as we were so close) and underneath the cap it said “Open again for more happiness!” Drink more, Coca Cola says, Drink more.
At this point we all got our assignments for the night of where we were going to sleep. I got assigned to this Elementary school teacher’s house and so we left, hopped on his moto (with my helmet of course), and zipped over to his house. His accent was a bit hard for me to understand as he slurred his speech quite a bit, and I actually don’t think he was too terribly strong with French. As we were going over to his house I kept having to tell him I didn’t understand what he was saying and so when we got there he stumbled a bit in broken English and said that somebody had come to his house on Monday (it was a Saturday, remember) while he was at school and burned it down. His concession was the type with a number of separate small one and two-room huts and the only thing left of his were some scorched mud brick walls. All of the guy’s clothes were in there, along with his identity papers, bank papers, moto documents, in short: just about everything of material value of his, save the clothes on his back and his moto. It was at this point that I noticed a faint scent of whiskey of him. Later, somebody explained to me that the fire wasn’t an accident, somebody came and specifically burned it down. The guy told me that he had two wives and somebody guessed to me that one of the wives, or maybe a girlfriend, got jealous and came and burned it down. He did talk about the burning of his house quite a bit but he always came back to saying, “I have my health and my family is safe, so I thank God.” I guess it’s good to always keep a positive attitude.
Well, I put my stuff in the room I was going to stay in, and then headed over to the soccer field. A few people were already hanging out and stretching. I started warming up a little bit and people slowly started trickling in. It was starting to get kinda late, and we weren’t sure we’d have enough time for the game so rather than do a full warm up, we did a couple sprints across the field and then a few stretches. And then the game started….
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