New Year on the Equator

New Year's Eve finds us in Malabo, the capital of Equatorial Guinea. While it's only a 15-minute flight from our home base in Cameroon, it's very different from the life we've grown into back in Yaounde.

• Split personality: The capital is located on the island of Bioko, separated from the larger chunk of the country wedged between Gabon and Cameroon on Africa's mainland.

• Se habla espanol: Equatorial Guinea is the only Spanish-speaking country in Africa. (I'm not going to get into it about the former Spanish Sahara -- there's not much time left in the year.)  EG has a decidedly Spanish colonial feel to it - witness the cathedral downtown, a stone's throw from the President's palace.  We have decided that we like Spanish much better than French.

• No bumps: We're staying near the Embassy, which lies along a highway that follows the northern shoreline. Steve's morning run was completely flat, a stark contrast from the hills he finds on every outing in Yaounde. Make no mistake - geologically Bioko is part of the range of mountains that includes Mount Cameroon back home. Pico Basile looms over Malabo, but we've barely been able to see it because of the dusty haze the dry season has brought. Here's a better picture someone else took:

• Black gold: There's oil in them thar waters. It's not quite OPEC worthy, but the influx of money results in a per capita income of $37,000 (unevenly distributed, make no mistake) and a lot of sparkling new buildings being built both on the island and in the mainland provinces.

The opportunity came up for a short-term assignment here, and we decided to make a family outing of it. Life is slow here -- enough to drive you crazy, some would say -- but we're together, exploring a new place. Today we took an auto tour of an oil facility, sparkling new buildings in a Malabo II that will replace the current city, and the sleepy capital descended from colonial days. We ended it with a mad rush through Martinez Brothers grocery store to get a bottle of champagne.

We won't be missing much outside at the stroke of midnight. Equatorial Guinea has an auto curfew on major holidays, including New Year's Day, and after 10 pm tonight no cars are allowed on the roads. I'm not quite clear on what happens if you are out, and how you get home, but I hear that most people ring in the New Year with their families. Here, we've put the Girls to sleep one last time, finishing Stuart Little, and we're going to watch a video or two before we wake each other up, sip champagne, and go to bed.

A lesson: no matter where you go, after a while New Year's Eve is the same the world over!

[Footnote: though Equatorial Guinea is the closest of several Guineas to the Equator, we're a few degrees north. The Equator does run through Gabon and Sao Tome.]

The Boss's Chicken

One of the first dishes I tasted here is probably as typical Cameroonian as there is: Poulet Director General.

It's as delicious as it looks in the recipe and the photo.

Everyone has his or her own version. This is Chantale's.

Poulet D.G.

Ingredients

• 1 whole chicken, about 3 pounds, or chicken breasts
• 5 to 6 medium ripe plaintains
• 6 medium tomatoes, chopped
• 1 large onion, divided and chopped
• 1 tbsp bouillon cube
• 3 cloves garlic, chopped
• fresh basil, parsely, celery, chopped and divided
• vegetable oil for deep frying
• 2 tbsp olive oil or vegetable oil
• black pepper as desired
• 1 tbsp salt

1. Wash chicken then cut into small pieces.
2. Cook chicken pieces with half of the onions, half of the spices, 1 tsp salt, and pepper in 1 cup water.
3. Heat the oil with medium high heat. 
4. Meanwhile cut plantains in 1-1/2 inch rounded pieces, then deep fry in the oil. Cook by a small amount at a time, about 10 minutes or until each portion is dark brown. Set aside
5. When the chicken is done (15 to 20 minutes) drain, reserving the stock.
6. Heat 2 tbsp oil and sauté chicken until browned on all sides. Remove from heat. Set aside.
7. Add leftover onions, garlic to the pan. Sauté until soft. Add leftover spices. Sauté for one minute. Add tomatoes. Cook tomatoes until water is absorbed. Add the chicken liquid, bouillon cube, and black pepper. Cook 2 to 3 minutes. Return chicken and plantains to the pan. Cook 1 more minute.

Poulet D.G. is ready.  Bon appetit.   

On Trail in Cameroon

The Yaoundé Hash House Harriers completed something like their 680th run last weekend. We paid for it. But we got our money’s worth. 

The YHHH meets Saturdays at 3:30 p.m. or so in front of the Yaoundé Hilton in downtown. The general plan is to pile into cars, drive to the designated start place, get out, and hash. We arrived a little early, and wandered into a newly opened store, Stop & Shop. Intrigued by the use of the Obama “Big O” logo in the banner they stretch across every street in le centre, we had to see what a real-live “American store” sold. 

Lots of things Made in China. 

We returned to find most of the Hash already piled into cars, and waiting impatiently for us. Ideally, we’d like to think they didn’t want us to miss the fun, but we were driving a vehicle that could take at least four more hashers, and space was tight. We squeezed five in, but that left two carloads relegated to hailing taxis and joining in our convoy to Nkalan-Bisson (completely phonetic), a suburb west of the city. 

And we hashed. The ritual is refreshingly familiar around the world: about 30 of us circled for introductions and instructions, and then we took to a trail marked by shredded paper in hopes of finding beer at the end. Markings guide the runners along the trail in hopes of making it to the end where beer awaits. The Yaoundé Hash is officiated in French, which allows me to answer a question I've pondered for sometime: In English, the runners yell "On-on!" when they are on the true trail. Comment dit-on en français?

The answer. "On-on!"

The trail itself was somewhat disastrous. A good trail keeps the faster and slower runners together, but this is best accomplished by design and creativity, not by instilling fear in the pack. And within minutes we were afraid we’d never make it back if we didn’t stick together. We ran up and down every hill in the area, into people’s yards, up the side of a hill on a kilometer-long false trail ... two hours worth of trail. I was impressed, though: the hares hacked through the brush with a machete, clearing a path halfway up a giant hill - all for a false trail. At one point, I found myself clutching a sheer face for rock, while two hashers below encouraged me to keep looking for the trail up there. Huffing my way up another hill, I cursed, “It sucks to be old." I mean, you figure what goes up must come down, right? 

Returning to the starting parking lot, we stretched a little, paid 1,000 francs (just over 2 dollars), and enjoyed a beverage of choice (beer!) as we changed into less smelly clothes and  recapped the day’s run. The sun set on us as we celebrated and sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and parted ways until next time.  

Thanksgiving Recovery, Cameroon Style

So there you sit, gorged and bloated, promising never to eat that much for Thanksgiving. And promising to start back on your exercise program, just in time for the holidays. If you were here in Yaoundé, you would have no excuse, because tomorrow is Friday Night Fitness!

That’s my name for the weekly ritual of exercise at the Rond Point Bastos, the traffic circle near the American Embassy, at the terminus of Avenue Jean Paul II. (Eventually there will be a photograph of this circle HERE.) During most of the week, the most striking feature is the 25-meter tall steel sculpture shaped like a giant pick-up jack. Electric lights are strung across the frame, and I’d imagine that as the holidays approach it will shine bright in the night. 

For now, the show is underneath the sculpture. The Rond Point is the conjunction of several interesting routes in western Yaoundé. One leads past U.S. Embassy Yaoundé. The opposite way leads to a swanky neighborhood calls Bastos, with big houses and lost of other embassies and missions. Another rises toward Mont Febé, where the Presidential Residence is hidden in the hills overlooking our neighborhood, and the government-owned Mont Febé hotel. 

This Mont Febé route relates to our fitness routine: Saturday and Sunday mornings many Cameroonians head up the hill toward and past the hotel as part of a ritual. Walkers. Runners. Chatters. A former prime minister. Diplomats. Some head up to the hotel, others higher into the fog that sometimes cloaks the hills, many to group exercise sessions at a plateau in the clouds.  

But the groups on the hillside are nothing compared to the crowds back on the ground on Fridays. About 5 pm people start coming from all over Yaoundé, most on foot, some by car, and they gather at this circle -- and exercise. Some sprint laps around the roundabout. Others set up, in groups or individually, in the medians of the rond point and start exercising. Groups doing pushups, sit-ups, jump-ups, all sorts of ups, healthy or not. Groups running to or from the circle, to join or celebrate the fray. Others stretch. Or jump rope. Or ride bicycles. Or roller blades (there are apparently three Cameroonians who own roller blades, and this is where you find them). 

A couple of weeks ago I ventured down to the circle: it’s barely 3 km from our house. On the way there, I was challenged by a couple of kids who wouldn’t let me pass. Subtly (but definitively) I wore them down. After passing them, I descended a hill toward the traffic circle. Easily 300 people, mostly young, men as well as women, assembled, slowing auto traffic as they showed off their form and their forms. After nearly colliding with a herd circling the intersection, I reversed course and will remember to run counter-clockwise if I return. 

It’s an encouraging scene. There are a lot of young people who would spent their Friday evenings with friends, exercising an honest sweat, instead of carousing or other such nonsense. And I’m especially encouraged by the number of women who exercise, and publicly. Green, the color of Cameroon’s football jersey, is the most prominent hue, but joy in fitness is the theme. 

Merry New Year!

At first, all I knew of Cameroon what what Eddie Murphy told me.

Before Eddie took himself too seriously as a romantic leading man, then lost all self-respect as a Disney cartoon (ok, props for Shrek), he was very, very funny. The Saturday Night Live days may Tracy Morgan’s spin on 30 Rock all the more genius -- channeling Little Rascals without ever saying the B-word. My family has a special place for Eddie Murphy’s first feature lead role, in “Trading Places.” 

The Spanish-language title translates “From Beggar to Millionaire,” and that tells half the story of the movie. Eddie Murphy is your all-too-typical for the time slick, black hustler (TM), who catches the eye of idle rich white men who propose an experiment: can they turn Murphy’s reprobate into a genteel society man while reducing one of their own to poverty and crime. The stakes: one American dollar. The result? A very funny movie.

When Eddie Murphy’s Billy Ray Valentine (that’s even a slick name) and Dan Akroyd’s  dilettante fallen from grace, Louis Winthorpe III, learn they been had, they decide to get even. And this leads to my first brush ever with Cameroon. In the course of an improbable plot twist, they take a train on New Year’s Eve from Washington to Philly to steal corporate intel and turn the tables on their puppet masters. Donning an equally improbable disguise, Winthorpe, in the last permissible use of blackface ever, poses as Jamaican Lionel Joseph. And coincidence of coincidence, he is reunited on that very train with Murphy’s Nanga Eboko, “Exchange Student from Cameroon! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

As my kin can attest from several dozen watches, it all turns out well in the end. Looking  good, feeling good. And for years, that was what came to mind when I thought of Cameroon. Some mornings it still does. 

But... there’s more. Friday I was looking through our World Atlas (what? you don’t?) and noticed a small town about 120 km from Yaoundé. The village of ... Nanga Eboko. I kid you not. The surprise ending, 27 years in the making. Now, I’ve gotta find my copy of “Trading Places.” And expect photos from our road trip to Nanga Eboko in this very space. 

The Cultural Misunderstanding about Nothing

Seinfeld is arguably the greatest American situation comedy ever. Here in Cameroon, we must keep in mind that it's American. (And our life here is often more like this episode of Lucy, anyway.)

Steve was winding up affairs at the office today, and one of those amusing little bureaucratic Catch-22 contradictions appeared out of nowhere. In mock exasperation, he stood in the middle of the office and said overemphatically, "Serenity now!"

Now, of course, any Seinfeld fan worth his weight in muffin tops knows of Frank Costanza's relaxation program, which uses the words "Serenity now" to soothe away tension and anxiety. Frank's unique reading - shouting SERENITY NOW at the top of his lungs - has the opposite effect.

But there aren't many Seinfeld fans in Cameroon. The library silence after his clever invocation immediately tipped Steve off that he had startled my staff, thrusting them somewhere between concern and fear. One had dropped into a defensive, feline crouch after the outburst. Steve tried to jot off an email assuring everyone that he was iconic, not crazy, but the damage has been done.

An American colleague offered to bring her Seinfeld DVD to work tomorrow to share with the section and prove he's not crazy. But, as another Costanza learned, sometimes it's best to know when to go out on a high note.

U2dyssey

Now that she's back, let's share that Fatimah's been gone for the past two weeks. She left the wonders of Cameroon to return to America, but for something Irish: the band, the social movement known as U2.

 

She has a long history with U2, having seen them first in the early 80s. Even then, she knew they had something to distinguish them from the mass of new-wave or rock bands, such as Duran Duran, Oingo Boingo, and the Cars. Sure, that's good music, too, but U2 has lived up to the potential that Bono has proclaimed for himself. And all I have to show for it is a T-shirt, albeit it pretty cool.

 

Steve stayed home with the Girls, relying heavily on the supporting cast, when Fatimah flew back to the States. She landed with her in-laws, then hopped across the country to her parents, then returned east to arrange the final leg of the jouney, with the realization of her U2dyssey drawing close. Meanwhile, the girls and I had our share of fun, with tons of play dates with other kids, games before bathtime nightly, new clothes (handmade dresses and superhero T-shirts), but with a longing for a mother who was very far away, even if she was always in our hearts.

 

Fatimah said the show rocked. It's been getting great reviews, and she said the show in Charlottesville, Virginia, was no exception. She went with my brother and his wife, who live nearby, and they made the most of their day. Scott Stadium, with barely 50,000 seats, was more intimate than other venues, such as Atlanta's stadium or Washington's FedEx field. Steve gve explicit instructions to return with a T-shirt, but only if it was cool. (As it was, he gave her a Batgirl T to wear to the concert, which has its own cool factor). And, 36 hours later, when she pulled up to Chez Royster back in Yaounde, she had not only the experience of a lifetime, but Steve had a U2-360 T-shirt.

 

That someone is devoted enough to a journey of pleasure to take two 18-hour plane trips is dedication. It also demonstrates adventure and pursuit. It is amazing that someone is that free of spirit at this age and in this age, and that's how Steve knows he's into something good - that he's found what he's looking for.

 

 

Cheese & Gorillas: Watch Your Back

As part of its effort to scare us in reducing the risks we take, the Embassy’s security office shares a monthly blotter of crimes in the Republic of Cameroon. Among our welcome materials were cautionary tales of: a Burkinabe man slain by his Cameroonian girlfriend, a Rwandan student found several days after her semester had ended... permanently, and a Cameroonian who killed her boyfriend after she found him messin’ around. The Cameroonian Navy killed a handful of pirates (ever notice how pirates are not quite as much fun when they are not "from the Caribbean"?) And a band of highway robbers shook down a group of Spanish tourists on a bus up north. But, aside from gruesome car accidents, there were at least five cases of old-style street justice: crowd runs down robbers, beats them to death. My lesson: as long as I don't mess around, these people have my back.

It’s Friday night, and all’s quiet chez Royster. The Embassy closes early on Friday afternoon: Working a little longer the rest of the week gives us a slightly longer weekend. I used my extra time to play with the girls, Fatimah enjoyed hers at Mahima, one of the larger supermarkets here. Make no mistake: it’s expensive to live in the big city. I think it’s the combination of the difficulty of getting things here and the risk sellers take of finding anyone who will buy their wares. But, whatever, Fatimah came home with a $10 block of cheese. We’ll work though it, but we definitely will be using the Cost of Living Allowance available to those of us serving in Cameroon. 

The city seems like just that: a large, poorly planned city that lurches forward on its inertia. And bad driving. But it never seems like we’re in Africa! There are some sights at time: impossibly green hills disappearing into angry gray clouds, lizards lazily resting on perpendicular walls, multicolored prints sewn into dresses, shirts, and ill-advised Bermuda shorts. 

We walked to a pizza joint. Pizza Roma is wedged into a building propped up over the Bastos Crossroads, where three busy streets meet without benefit of sign or light. I’m amazed that everyone seems to negotiate the intersection by luck, patience or strength of will. I’ve only seen one accident there, and people were more annoyed by the fact of the collision than the actual damage. And we saw our second Hummer tonight. Someone’s saving what they make from that $10 cheese. 

Saturday turned out to be a great day, though our days in Cameroon have generally been pleasant. I slipped out of the house early for a run. Back home, I showered, at with the Girls, and then we were out the door to visit the Mefou Gorilla Preserve, south of Yaoundé. The preserve’s mission is to rescue animals from the bushmeat industry -- bushmeat being the flesh of gorillas and other primates. The preserve has rescued a few dozen animals, and has even bred a few babies. We were safe, on the other side of sturdy fences, and I can’t say we’ll ever be that close to baboons, gorilla or chimpanzees again. We heard the apes’ calls and whoops as rain pattered on green bananas splayed into a canopy overhead. For a moment, we thought, we had a glimpse of our romantic vision of Africa.

Then a band of gorillas beat the crap out of an ape who'd stolen some bananas.

Ooo, That Smell

Sainte Anastasie Park lies in the jumbled center of Yaoundé, the nation’s capital. Locals grumble at the 100-franc (20-cent) entrance fee, but this manicured oasis in the heart of the bustling capital is well worth the price of admission. Rarities elsewhere in life are found here: convenient parking, landscaped greenery, clean walkways, a well-appointed restaurant on the grounds.

There’s even a statue of a man thinking, probably wondering if the rest of the city can ever look like this.

We packed some snacks a few weeks ago, hailed a ride, and roamed the grounds, free of traffic and crowds. But we ran into one major problem with our downtown haven: it stank to high heaven. (I’ve had an issue here with the past tense of “stank,” but I think I have it now.) The smell was unpleasant (“smells” always are, along with “odors.” “Aromas” and “fragrances” please the nose.) and pervasive.  Was it coming from the fetid stream running into the park, right under one of the faux cantilever pedestrian bridges? Was it the uneven sewage wafting from the surronding neighborhood? What came for sure from the nearby streets was the song of Sunday from a church somewhere on the hill overlooking Sainte Anastasie.

Green & lush, it appealed to the eye. The restaurant’s patrons seemed to enjoy their food, and walking without fear or crime or traffic was a respite. But it’ll take some convincing to return, because that smell overcame the pleasures the other senses experienced at the park.



Richard Pryor, the late, great comedian, told of his trip to Africa. Drunk with his return to his roots, as he tells it, he stopped for a hitch-hiking local while driving on safari in Kenya. Within minutes, Richard’s ecstasy in bonding with his brother man turned to dismay: the man stank to high heaven. He joked about trying to hold his breath, and sticking his head out the window for fresh air, holding on until he reached his traveler’s destination. After a hasty farewell, he rolled down all his windows, gasping for a clean breath -- and in his rear-view mirror spied his passenger similarly exorcising the foreign, alien odor he had been trapped with inside Richard’s car. Richard Pryor was a genius.

Holiday! No, wait, on further review...

It's Sunday, and we're halfway through a three-day weekend. Or not. Let me explain.

The Holy Month of Ramadan ended sometime this weekend. Islam follows a lunar calendar (which is why the dates of Muslim holidays change from year to year). Thus, the ending date of Ramadan is guided by the moon, and the high officials must make some observation to make it official. I know, I know, the behavior of the moon is completely predictable, but officially someone has to make the call. And that's our confusion.

We've known all year that Ramadan closes this weekend, but it hasn't been clear if or when the president of Cameroon would declare a holiday to mark Eid-al-Fitr. Complicating things, he left the country last weekend without a proclamation, so we went home Friday thinking we probably wouldn't work on Monday, in honor of the feasting and celebration by all the observant who can make up for a month of fasting. And Saturday, we assumed. And Sunday ... and by about 4 in the afternoon, we realized we'd never heard anything official. So... do we have work Monday?

Girl 1's school already declared Monday a holiday, which will just complicate child care if there's confusion about this. I called the repository of all knowledge at the Embassy - the Motor Pool drivers - to ask if they knew what was going on. They said the 5 o'clock news would tell all, but at 5:30 we were no wiser. The latest word was that the 7:00 o'clock newscast would set us straight.

It's hardly the season, but I'm losing faith and thinking the three-day weekend I'd expected will not come to pass. But, from a Western perspective, the worst part may be simply not knowing about something as secure and fixed as time, and not being able to depend on it.

Derision of Motor Vehicles

A friend posted on Facebook:

Have you ever thought about the way people drive as an indicator of how they interact with others in the rest of their life?

by C--- 

Think about how people drive, how they behave behind the wheel, how well (or not) they drive when they have passengers in the car.

Cautious, timid drivers risk getting run over, and often do in many ways. They usually let lots of people cut in even when it costs them time they don't have to spare. They don't run yellow lights and will rarely break the rules in other aspects of their life, work and relationships.

Kind drivers accept that there are others on the road and will play nice. They usually let others help shape their lives and are considerate of their needs. Often they understand that sometime others' needs are more important than theirs and that we all are in this together so let's make it as pleasant and safe as possible.

Those who think they own the road, cut others off, and yell at everyone to get out of their way show no respect for others in their daily interactions. They think they are above the law, and don't have to follow the rules. They usually treat others with disrespect, talk over others in conversation, demand respect they haven't earned and show little concern for the well being of others.

Interesting, isn't it?

I responded: 

C-------, you ignorant s#@%. Allow me to retort:

Driving gives people license (stop me!) to act as they wish they could in other areas of life. The marshmallow in the office vents the bile he swallows during the day in a binge of road rage on the way home. The XXXL who painfully lumbers and pants up a flight of stairs is leaning on the horn if you don't keep his 75 mph pace. The person who doesn't acknowledge his nose around others but is all in on I-95 South. 

I think cars, like the Internet, give us some perceived anonymity or alter ego to live unfettered by the rules and circumstances we don't like. Why else would avid joggers, for instance, chase pedestrians from crosswalks? Why would 38-year-old men try to drag race you in a Honda Odyssey SUV?

Why?

Animals Marching in Pairs

After two days without rain, the skies opened up this afternoon with a hard, cleansing rain. It will continue for a few hours until ditches rise to street level, spontaneous arc-building breaks out over the city, and traffic slows... no, actually, drivers don't really adjust their speed or direction to take rain-slickened roadways into account. 

At its most comical, I have to find a picture of a car whose driver couldn't see the flooded ditch running alongside the road. The two right tires are wedged into the ditch, leaving the chassis perched on the sharp, unforgiving curb. 

At its luckiest, we were driving on the main highway between Douala and Yaounde when a car hydroplaned, swerved out control, and slammed entirely into a ditch. I resolve to buy Mercedes next life, because the passengers - tossed around like rag dolls inside, without even a hint of seat belt use, all staggered away from the totaled car. 

At its worst, the traffic accidents are grisly. Eighteen died in a single incident that was overshadowed by a train wreck in Yaounde the same day that claimed half a dozen other lives. 

In so many ways, when it rains, it pours. 

The Long Arm of Cameroonian Justice

The long arm of the law has nothing on the backhand of Cameroonian justice. Last week we were riding to work when a policeman motioned for us to stop. We waiting in front of Cameroon's diplomatic security station while the officers raised the proud, red, yellow and green flag of Cameroon. A car (with diplomatic tags, no less) approached from the other direction, ignoring the command to stop, and barely slowing. The policeman got the driver's attention when he reached through the open window and slapped him across the face! The flag fully unfurled, we were waved through as the officer and his colleagues sorted things out.

In preparation for an American football related gathering Saturday, I visited Mahima, the main supermarket downtown. I believe the stores -- there's another across town, and at least one in Douala, Cameroon's largest city -- are Indian-owned. They're large, well-stocked in the basics, and considered pricey on the local scale. My trip was not indicative: I was there for beer, as well as soft drinks and napkins. I loaded up the cart with a dozen 40s and we were ready for serious business.

And serious business it is, as we had some friends over for an NFL Fantasy draft party! Even in Cameroon, we Americans cling to our national traditions, and we are ready for some football. As hosts, though, we're limited because our kitchen and party things are on a slow boat from Baltimore. Our sponsor recommended Mama Marcelline to help with some grilling, and we're expecting to have beef brouchettes, chicken, plantains and french fries, served hot and piping from the grill. I called Marcelline and attempted in vain to make arrangements. I was able to understand enough to set up a rendez-vous (at least that's French) to continue discussions, enhanced with hand gestures, and give her a little walking-around money. She may have actually been on foot, because she returned to our house five hours later with some marinated mean and a tired expression on her face. She returned that afternoon to start fire and burn meat, and it was good to chew charred steak as we went about the manly task of pretending to play football. 

Fatimah's really been in to the football draft for the past 12 hours or so, and has been surfing ESPN.com in hopes of getting a competitive edge, a step ahead of the rest of us. (Two days later) As it turned out she got a pretty good team, and in just two weeks, she'll be stateside for a spell, and ready to enjoy her team (fantasy style) and her Team (those Patriots). 

In an awkward gaffe, yesterday a Cameroonian colleague came to my office to ask about the football notice I'd put in the Embassy newsletter about the fantasy league. Unfortunately, I had written "football," and as one would think in any of the other 196 countries in the world, he read that as what we would call "soccer." Cultural gaffe 1, Steve 0 (which is usually the score of every football game, isn't it?).

Mail call for us Embassy folks is a special time; after only a month we see that already.  The Dulles address that we use is a drop box that forwarded mail to us once a week. Internet shopping (mail order is so 1980s) is more than a hobby. It's a lifeline, because most of what you might find in the way of creature comforts is overpriced and of questionable quality. Deliveries are Mondays, and it's often a mixed mailbag. I was disappointed that a fairly utilitarian order of mine (from an evil boxstore empire) did not arrive - the wide-spaced extension cords will have to wait at least another week. But Fatimah was the big winner, with a shipment of bedclothes and pans from Overstock.com. But once that's it, that's it. There's solace knowing that my universal electrical outlets are on the way, or that the care packages from our mothers are somewhere in the pipeline. But when will we see them? Monday. We can mail things on Thursdays, and I promise I'll write a pen and paper letter to anyone who writes me. 

We're new at the school stuff, and as Aaliyah prepares for her first day in preschool, we missed the importance of pre-school orientation. Fatimah and I had both met the headmaster of the American School of Yaoundé, and we'd paid appropriate dues and registered for class. Apparently, though, on Friday everything changed and the information we had earlier was null and void. We're not going to worry, we're not going to stress... We proud and shocked that we'll have a child on a regular school schedule. Now, the transportation through the choked streets of downtown Yaoundé, before our car arrives here - that's something to watch. 

ASOY is somewhere south of us, tucked away on a hill that looks across the valley cradling Yaoundé's city centre. The school is small, but has a lot of tradition. The book is that it's good for younger children, but older kids can find themselves alienated by the pace of life in Cameroon and the history of other students who've bonded into impenetrable cliques during careers at the school. I can't judge: it's enough to accept that our Girl No. 1 is going to be a real student. As for Zana, I'm not sure how she'll do once she realizes that she won't have her big sister as her partner in whine for the whole day. She won't be alone, though, and I hope to update next on the people who help us around the house. I know several who've been very interested in the concept of household staff in the foreign service ...  

Plus a recap of Cameroon's Indomitable Lions in their do or die World Cup qualifying match against Gabon. Soccer is life here, and even with the match in Libreville, we expect every radio and television in town to be tuned to game. Except ours, which receives only US military programming. And that, too, is another story

Banana Fronds Out Front

We'd Like to Thank Our Supporting Cast

It’s embarrassing to admit, but here we are braving the wilds of Central Africa, and we’re a little whiney because our internet service has slowed to a crawl uphill. I can imagine a Foreign Service just 20 years ago where you boarded a propellor plane, and when you clambered off the return flight two years later you were dissociated from any semblance of American culture. In the Foreign Service of the 21st century, we complain because we only get basic cable piped into our place and we have to choose a local mobile phone carrier. 

But one thing that hasn’t changed about serving in the developing world is the notion of domestic staff. You can try to rationalize it anyway you want to. I prefer the “we’re just moving into an established system” approach though the “they’re depending us for jobs” goes a long way. Couple these with “if we paid them by American standards, we’d throw the economy out of whack,” and you close the circle on one of the hidden perks of life abroad. Having a household staff is antithetical to American egalitarianism, but after five weeks abroad you find yourself complaining that one of your shirt sleeves wasn’t ironed along the crease. (Aside: minimum wage in the U.S. is $7.25! I remember scraping chewing gum off theater seats for less than half that.)

Without further rationalization, let me present our supporting cast in Yaoundé:

Chantale is our cook and housekeeper. Currently she only works half-time, but she has an issue about leaving on time and stays an hour or so longer than she should. This is actually a problem, because she cuts into our precious family time together. Yeah, she cooks a mean Poulet D.G., but I’m still not comfortable with the presence of staff to make myself at home when she’s in the house. 

Prudencia is the nanny. Funny, I think Mary Poppins. After her first week, Prudencia asked if she could bring her 11-year-old son to meet us one Saturday. We were intrigued, but concerned. Was this some ritual that would bind us for life or obligate us to sponsor his citizenship? Had we promised the hand of one of our daughters? In the end, they visited, we sat in the living and stared at each other, and then we ate tuna fish off Ritz crackers before they left. Doesn’t sound like an ancient Cameroonian rite.

Francis is the gardener. He’s actually the pool guy, because the only grass we have is a narrow fringe surrounding a pool that we would rather not have. We have an unspoken fear of the girls slipping into the pool and qualifying for the Olympics; no pool, no disappointments on the medal stand. I find it amusing that he used a gas-powered mower to cut the meter-wide swath of grass. There’s also a bit of concrete that needs to be cleaned from time to time. 

Papillon is the driver. I haven’t met Papillon, and Fatimah’s not entirely sure if she’s hired him or not. Academic at this point, since our car was last spotted in the Port of Douala, out on the coast, and only time and bribery can work it through customs to us here in Yaoundé. The driving here is not quite like anything I’ve seen before. There is no general rule on prioritéˆ; the goal seems to be to avoid getting hit. (Cars only; pedestrians wander freely into the street, heedless of passing traffic.) Despite the craziness, I’ve seen very few accidents, though yesterday’s was unique. Two cars moving very slowly sideswiped each other, pinning shut the drivers’ doors, leaving them to jaw at one another through their windows, which came to rest about six inches apart. His real name is Edward, but he's used Papillon since he was a child, and people have even shouted out "Butterfly" to him on the street. Oddly enough, even though he's official an anglophone, I don't understand what he's saying.

So if you’re reading this, you’ll know Cameroon has returned to the cyberverse, and you can rest easy knowing that we will be fully versed on the things that make America great: shouting Congressmen, disappearing students, and football, football, football. And yet can pity us on our return, when we are unable to wash, feed or transport ourselves without first reflexively asking if someone is done with the ironing yet.

[Posted 10 Decmeber 2009]