Finding the Rhythm

There is a rhythm to life.  I know this. That is partly where the name of my blog came from.  But the rhythm in Cameroon has a different cadence than in America.  I like forming a rhythm to my life by following a daily routine.  I try to go to bed at the same time, wake up at the same time, eat the same thing for breakfast each morning—oatmeal with bananas and peanut butter (of course!).  After trying to balance work, school, and personal obligations I have spent years planning each day so I use my time as efficiently as possible.  And then I return to Cameroon.  A place where there is always enough time and efficiency isn’t a high priority.  I know this, yet often the American beat inside me clashes with the Cameroon beat surrounding me.  Last week I was trying to arrive in Bafut by 10 am for the start of Youth Day.  I knew that I would have to be at the taxi park by 9 am to wait for 6 other people to arrive and fill the circa 1990 Toyota Corolla for the 30 minute drive to Bafut.  I left the place where I was staying, looking at my watch while walking down the road, and trying to determine how much time I had to find a place and eat breakfast.  As I was walking intently down the road when a man yells at me, “You pass and do not greet?”  Ah yes, how quickly I forget the obligation to greet every person on the road with a “Good morning-oh” or “How for you?” or “You sleep fine?” of just simply, “Ahia” when I am worried about keeping time. 

And I know that this will not be the only time I experience the syncopation of rhythms. This past week we had our first meeting with all of the local research staff.  It was quite productive, and I am so thankful to be surrounded by competent, supportive people.  Following the meeting I had to print of a 119 page document on Protection of Human Subject Participants and make three photocopies.  Because industrial-sized printer and copiers are not available this took over five hours to complete.  The next day I arranged with the District Medical Officer, Dr. Yota, to plan for our four focus-group discussions.  We determined where the focus group discussions would be and who would be invited and he then drafted a letter to the area health clinics.  After the letter was completed he guaranteed me that I would have the 24 women and 24 men I need for this phase of the study.  Both of these events reminded me that some things are a lot harder here and some things are a lot easier than in America.  I know that to print and make photocopies in America would take 15 minutes, yet trying to recruit and plan for four focus group discussion would take much longer then my 30 minute discussion with Dr. Yota. 

Local Research Team: Ghislane, Hope, Marianna, Nancy, Dr. Fonteh, and myself.  Not pictured: The Men, Dr. Okwen and Dr Yota

Since arriving in Kumbo many Cameroonians have said to me, “But this is not like in America.  In America do you have this much dust?  Do you have these earth roads? Do you have electricity failures?”  And I tell them no, we do not, but we also don’t have time or solidarity with our neighbors.  Yesterday I was working on updating the protocol for our study and the electricity went out and the internet went down.  With that occurrence I decided there wasn’t anything for me to do in the house and I went to visit Franklin’s family.  Not long after I arrived I was given a huge plate full of njamajama and asked to remove the stems.  After I finished that task I sifted the corn, added it to the boiling water, and started stirring over the open fire in the outdoor kitchen to make fufu corn.  When I woke up that day I had no intention of learning how to make the local staple food, I wanted to finish writing the protocol, but there I was, desteeming, pounding, stirring, and cooking much to the delight of Franklin’s mother and sister.  And its moments like that, moments that happen both unexpectedly and expectedly like watching the sun rise from my loft window, or the sun set from my kitchen window while preparing dinner, or taking the first bite of the sweet and juicy pineapple, where I experience sheer contentment of being here.  Thus the task of coordinating American and Cameroon rhythms continues, but I’m thankful for the moments of grace that propel me onwards.  

   Don’t we often look at the many events of our lives as big or small interruptions, interrupting many of our plans, projects, and life schemes?  But what if our interruptions are in fact our opportunities, if they are challenges to an inner response by which growth takes place and through which we come to the fullness of being?

Henri Nouwen, Reaching Out