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]
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