... It's in the Mail

Sunday is John Hancock's birthday.  In what I consider a masterstroke of marketing, the writing utensil industry designated January 23 National Handwriting Day, one of those made-up holidays that at least is a little fun.  I've written several letters by hand and sent them on their way (only one of my Facebook friends took me up on the offer).  Some I mailed from work, which has a drop box with service to the States.

That's only once a week, and the letters I'd saved for Thursday and Friday had to go through CamPost, the local mail.  No one uses this system - the post offices are mailing just for paying bills and employing government workers.  I will write you a letter if you ask, but in the meantime here's what a post office in Cameroon looks like.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr., Day. Really?

Tomorrow is the King Holiday.  The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., would be 82 years old. I was four when he died, so I have no first-hand recollection of his fight for his dream, my nation's loss when he was killed, or the progress, both perfected and unfulfilled, in the 43 years since that spring night in Memphis.  

Color me black. 

But when my five-year-old asked me if we get presents for the King Holiday ("Well, it's a holiday ..."), I realize that I have to decide how I want her to live his legacy.  Though the day is not a holiday in Africa (or, apparently in fair-weather parts of the US - what's up with that, people?), in our house our school and office have the day off, so we'll be together.  

I know we're going to talk about Dr. King, and have a little coloring fun.  But I'm grasping as to how to put this in context.  We walk outside, and every single person we see is Black African, except the expat community bubble we live in, which is decidedly more integrated.  How do I start to instill the Black American experience in a little girl in Black Africa?    

Having Girl 1 end the day with some understanding of how different her life would be had Dr. King not waged his fight will be the best present either one of us could give the other.  My job as dad, and my debt to Dr. King, is to figure that out. 

A Saturday's Errands in Yaounde

Yesterday's errands.  (Nothing earth-shattering here - offered solely as an example of what we do because Tysons is too far.)

Love.  Girl One has agreed to take tennis lessons at French-speaking center.  We hope she'll enjoying playing with children and communicating in French, an opportunity we haven't taken advantage of much in our first year.  We also hope she'll develop a better backhand than Steve's. The center's closed until Monday, when she'll have her first lesson.  We'll try again and hope there's a spot on the court for her.

Shave and a Haircut:  3 mille. Fatimah may have cut her hair short, but it still grows, and managing her natural cut has proven a problem.  Ah, the irony:  who would think the Black woman hair care issue would surface in a country full of Black women?  But after several ageometric haircut where a hapless coiffure tried to use scissors to shape up her Afro, Steve took her to his barber.  

Do not smirk.  Twice since accepting his hair challenges, Steve has grown his hair enough to require a visit to the barber, usually after a vacation during which he hasn't shaved his head enough to keep his scalp clean. 

Sakoto'o, a barber in the Bastos neighborhood, is about 2 km from our house.  The Girls and I escorted her to the shop, and we explained in broken French what she wanted:  "Plus court."  He took out the trusted, if aged, electric clippers and sheared layer upon layer from Fatimah's head.  The barber tamed her hair into a sphere, salted with experience and the time since her last touch-up! The haircut took about 15 minutes -- no waiting -- and cost 3,000 francs - six bucks. (Tell them about that at the salon!)

Does this make my butt look fat?  Tailors and seamstresses throughout Cameroon design and construct regal and vibrant run a vibrant business here, designing and constructing regal costumes.  The country's third-largest industry is textile production, and many of the pagnes that are cut and sewn into outfits are domestically spun.  One of the things to do here is to acquire a few outfits of your own - though they will stand out on Washington's Metro, they are quite normal and well-received here. 

A friend at work recommended Couterie Ibrahim, her tailor, and after the haircut we ordered a few outfits--but first we had to find his shop.  A few streets in Cameroon have official names (or numbers) but no one uses them.  Instead, every trip is described in relation to its surroundings.  When she started to tell us where the place was, Steve joked that it was "down that road, past the Texaco, and next to a quincaillerie."  He was just making this up--this could describe nearly any location in the capital, but she nodded, clarifying that it was really a few storefronts down from the hardware store.  

She drew us a map.

But Steve knew a shortcut and turned a 10-minute drive into a half-hour struggle through the city's main market on a Saturday.  We jostled alongside, around and over taxis, streetside vendors, wheelbarrows, a pig, and pedestrians.  We hit an epic African logjam, an intersection where cars ignored not only the traffic signals but the other cars already gridlocked in the intersection to create an impasse.  

In Ibrahim's shop we looked through stacks of photos of his past creations, and several Afro-European fashion mags.  We had bought our own fabric, so our challenge was find a style for him.  Fatimah was sized for an ensemble, a two-piece top and skirt that is standard Cameroonian wear, and a full dress.  Ibrahim was especially taken with the fabric she'd brought for the dress.  Steve asked for a tunic-and-trousers combination much like what Ibrahim himself was wearing.  While he sized Steve, Ibrahim said he reminded him of the president of Senegal, which seems like a non sequitur until we realized that our tailor was from Dakar, which with Abidjan is the hub of the African fashion.  The outfits will be ready on January 19, and we'll show the results.  

Another quick running update

As I tweeted, I continue to surprise myself with my morning runs.  This time I got lost behind the national stadium.  To be fair, it was only my second time on these streets, but to be honest I had a 50,000-seat stadium as a marker, so I should have kept my bearings.

Once into the fray

Highlights: after dodging several scores, at Mile 6.5 I finally bumped into a pedestrian. How can people be so oblivious to everyone when traffic is so crazy?  They guy was shocked, then insulted, then amused.

I noticed the too-true slogan on the 50th anniversary signs plastered everywhere: Peace and Unity Today, Prosperity Tomorrow.

I left about 2 hours later this morning, and the recreation scene at the stadium (Mile 5) was winding down. Only a few stragglers were left finishing up their games, and the hordes of group exercises left only empty parking lots surround Ahidjo Stadium.

I just plain got lost at Mile 6. I overshot my quick right, and went back and forth on the main road until I saw the Barack Cafe. That had to be right, right? A zig and a few zags later I was back on my route.

Mile 8 tells me what happens if a tree falls in Yaounde: power goes out, roads are blocked and people nearly get crushed. You can make out a tree near the end of my run, but on the next update it'll be gone: someone has cleared the lot to build. The tree had a broad green bough about 40 feet off the ground, stubbornly clinging to the rich red clay beneath it. Until Mr. Caterpillar came to town. The crew cut through the roots, but misaligned the fall. As the tree crashed earthward, it veers not toward the vacant lot, but instead at an apartment building. It fell short (lucky for the three spectators atop the building) but took out power lines along the street before crashing its ancient branches across the road to our house.  The lumber is cleared, and the power? Well, that's the other side of the street, so ...

Layovers in Our Travels

One of the unfortunate things about living off the regular airline grid is that to get anywhere we usually face long airport layovers.  Unfortunately, this gives us much more time than we need to get to know the airports en route.  Fortunately, more and more airports provide comfort services, including playrooms for wee travelers.  

BRU  

On our way to Yaounde, we routed through Brussels, and found a small, clean play area in an international terminal.  This was the Girls' first time in Europe, and they celebrated by doing what little girls do best:  playing.  

Girl 2

Girl 1

NBO

In January, on an interesting, if luggage-challenged trip, to Kigali, Rwanda, we were lucky enough to schedule an 8-hour layover in Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. (Where is my left-leaning font when I need it?) Kenya's trying - there is a great coffee and beer pub in the far end of the airport, and you can easily while away a few hours there talking trash about cricket and CNN's Zain Verjee. 

NBO has a children's changing area which, inexplicably, is up a flight of stairs, rendering it useless to anyone who's traveling with wheels.  They also have a brightly lit playroom, with well-loved (read battered) toys and an instructive view of the tarmac.  

The decorators' idea was to use familiar cartoon figures, but draw them so badly that no one could seriously claim copyright infringement.  I think they pulled it off.  

ZRH

The Girls hit paydirt on our summer trip back from to America, transiting this time through Zurich.  Wouldn't you know it:  the Swiss had a playroom that made the six-hour wait seem like only four.  The Girls had fun - remember, this is midway through a 22-hour one-way trip, and they're still going strong. 

Bonus: Meeting cute EuroKids