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.

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.