Burning at the stake, fleas in my bed, and Independence Day Celebrations

These past couple weeks have been a bizarre mix of abnormal anecdotes, sinister stories, and fantastical fairy-tales that some how amount to my daily life. I find myself constantly ill prepared, and generally overwhelmed to process what happens each day, and am constantly worried that I’m not savoring every moment of this strange and peculiar journey.As the transitions of daily life continue to wear on me, I have to remind myself to treat each moment as just that, a moment, and not look at it as a sequence of events leading to some grand scheme. Let me show you what I mean.

The first moment comes from just down the road in a subdivision of Bamendjou, called Toumi. Now, as I understand the story, which we can’t entirely rely on as it was told to me in a French-patois mix, there were two brothers who lived on a compound together with their two wives. Now, the younger brother had recently come into a small bit of wealth. The older brother, from what I understand, was a little pressed for cash. So the two brothers went out drinking, and as most good ideas are brewed over beers, this drinking tryst seemed to be no exception. For you see, the older brother decided that he would attack his brother that night, robbing him of both his money and life. So, the older brother left the bar, and waited for the younger brother in the bushes. Planning to ambush him, he kept quiet so that his brother would not know the identity of his killer. But fate is funny, and the younger brother, also carrying a knife, was not about to let a bandit attack him. So, unknowingly, he stabbed his killer—his brother—to death. He ran away, not processing what had happened, only to be woken up later that night with the news of his brother’s death. Walking past the village later that week, I was almost hit by a moto carrying, oh that’s right, his coffin. I guess that puts a whole new spin onto the village hearse concept.

not the brothers--but two other brothers

Later in the week, on the way to Batie, a town next to mine, to teach a group of women how to build an improved cookstove, I stumbled upon a crowd of people. Not wanting to miss out on the action, the moto I was on pulled up to the swarm of people to examine what was happening. And out of a morbid 13^th century scene, we stumbled upon four people tied to log about to be set on fire for stealing goats. I didn’t watch, but everyone else did. What is it about “justice” that makes perfectly sane people into sadistic voyeurs? And burned at the stake? Who still does that! The dichotomy that is Cameroonian society constantly baffles me—21^st century technology, cell phones, internet, coupled with this medieval mentality, burning at the stake, corporal punishment, abusing wives.

   

But it continues. I’ve been working with a primary school to help them become a bilingual school. I visited the school a couple weeks ago. The school was a tranquil oasis. But the lack of students was bizarre. On the way home the director pulled me aside. I have to tell you, Nura. Last year the unthinkable happened. I thought she was going to tell me that someone stole money. But no. Last year, she continued, one of our students, just four years old. She pauses, and pulls out a picture of the girl. Dropping her eyes, it was just terrible. He was so jealous. And sick. He killed her. And then buried her in front of the school. In the middle of the day. I need you, Nura, she pleaded. I need you to talk to the parents. They’ll listen to you. They’ll bring their students back. I knew she meant, they’ll listen to you because you’re white. But if my skin color meant bringing this school back together…I don’t know. The next week I came back to talk to the parents. I was idealistic and unpractical. I wanted to say, please, bring your kids back, they won’t die. But I couldn’t trivialize their pain. I paused, stuttered, and I’m sure said all the wrong things. I still don’t know what the right things were…

And without skipping a beat, we transition to the beautiful, hilarious, and light moments of life: the men’s veteran’s soccer game. Most Saturdays (read: whenever I can actually drag myself out of bed), I play soccer in the mornings and train with the veteran’s men’s soccer team. At first, they went easy on me, lightly tapping me the ball, and leaving the goal wide open. 

But I told them that I could take it, and they should treat me like every other player. Huge mistake. The next game I played in I wound up beat up, and I almost dislocated my knee. I came home that afternoon covered in mud, and my chief, upon seeing me, informed me that I was no longer allowed to play with the team. So now I’m more of a cheerleader (and I still occasionally play when I feel like I need a good ass-kicking). Now in our “travel season,” I accompanied my team to a town called Sanchou, just outside of Dschang, the infamous town that I walked to. We arrived on the outskirts of the town, greeted warmly by the opposing team. We paraded through town (literally paraded with music and honking horns and we waved, not necessarily at anyone, for about half an hour). 

They took us to visit the “tourist sites” in the town: an abandoned rice factory set up by the Chinese in the 70’s, the high school, and a coffee factory. The game seemed to be just a reason to travel, and no one seemed that bothered by the fact that we lost. At the end of the game, each player went home to freshen up and eat with a player from the other team. Sportsmanship at its very best. I ended up going home with a couple members from my team, and we went to, logically, the post office. Only it wasn’t a normal post office because this one was in a swamp. I’m not sure what they were thinking (look at this flooded space…thank god we’ve finally found a place for the post office!) but we crossed the bridge to the post office, where one of the members lived, and enjoyed a most delicious meal. We spent most of the night at the dance club in town sweating the night away. Though the men danced until the sun came up, exhausted I crawled back to the post office to take off my dancing shoes and rest. Driving back was gorgeous, the clouds still muffling the mountains, and the sun’s rays beginning to blanket the sky.

Oh, and did I tell you that I got a dog to keep my company, though ironically, the only time I have any time to myself is at home. But I guess the dog had company of his own. Fleas. So then I got fleas. And then I got rid of the dog. But I still have fleas. So I guess I’m still not entirely alone, then. It was a rash decision, and, no pun intended, one with rash effects.

But perhaps the most important, and exciting, story this month comes from Independence Day. There was a certain irony in the celebration of a country and a president that only last month its people tried to disassemble. Reminiscent of the Youth Day festivities, much of the morning was spent in the stands watching the parade. The karate club reminded us that they could still kick for 20 minutes, the adorable hula-hooping team wiggled their hips, and the boy scouts marched as slow as humanly possible. 

I sat next to my patois teacher for much of the ceremony. I asked him why he wasn’t marching. Pointedly, he replied, Nura, I’ve been marching since independence. I’m done now. As I spent the entire day at various parties around town, consuming eight entire meals, receiving 24 marriage proposals, and amazingly, fitting into a little five-seater car with 11 other people, I couldn’t but help be excited for next year’s festivities. Something to stick around for. I walked home late that night, the full moon lighting my way, a cool breeze cooling off my dancing heat, and thought: yup, this is the life.

So, as you can see, it’s been a, shall we say, interesting couple of weeks. Two of my friends called it quits, and headed back to the States. Though I respect their decisions, and wish them the best, I sometimes wish I too had the courage to leave. And it’s not as bad as I make it sound. I have to remind myself that for every bad day, there’s another good one around the corner. Somewhere. And that I have to make everyday here count—because everyday that I’m here is one when I’m not there. I can’t believe this time last year I was sitting on the floor of my doublewide trailer trying to fit the pieces of four years of my life into our mini van without so much as a clue to what lay ahead. I wonder what my life will be like this time next year. In short, I can’t even begin to imagine. Hopefully you can’t either. Cause that’s what life should be: full of surprises. Until the next one…