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]