The Sorrow

“Today we didn’t have classes because one of our classmates died yesterday.  He tripped over a gun and shot himself.”

“My husband didn’t know how to swim and he drowned in the lake.”

“One of our members from Christian Women’s Fellowship lost her husband last week.”

“Our house was attacked by thieves.  They came in and forced my son to drink kerosene because they wanted to kill him.”

“Ah, Sister, the day after you left some thieves came and broke the bars on the doors and stole money I had for the children’s school fees.”

“Last week our friends where held at gun point while the thieves went through their house.”

I heard these statements from various friends this past week.  Statements that remind me how hard and short life can be in Cameroon.  Statements that evoke the same feelings I felt when I was here before and came flooding back so strongly right before I came that I almost didn’t return to Cameroon. As I deepen relationships with friends in Cameroon I am reminded that sharing in their life means opening myself up to their sorrow and pain.  I don’t want to.  I want to just experience the joys of a shared hug, smile, meal, song, dance, safety-- the beautiful moments I have had the past two months.  I want to go around or run away from the pain, the sorrows, the fear.  I want to live a safe life in my house doing my research and believe that I can make a difference through scholarly achievements alone.  But I know that in doing so I’m not really living or being helpful to my friends.  As Henri Nouwen says, “We want to be professionals: heal the sick, help the poor, teach the ignorant, and organize the scattered.  But the temptation is that we use our expertise to keep a safe distance from that which really matters and forge that in the long run, cure without care is more harmful than helpful.  Let us therefore first ask ourselves what care really means and then see how care can become the basis of community.”

I was thinking about this again this morning, Palm Sunday, and realized that when I returned to Cameroon it was a joyful, triumphal re-entry.  It was great to be back, to renew friendships, to eat the food again.  Now I am called to move through the other emotions that Holy Week evoke—pain, separation, grief, sorrow, and stay with and care for my friends, not run away, not try to cure them, and patiently wait the promise of Easter.     

For many of us, the life we need to lose is life lived in the image of the autonomous self, and the life we shall then find is that of the self embedded in community—a community that connects us not only to other people but to the natural world as well.  No wonder resurrection is so threatening; it forces us to abandon any illusion we may have that we are in charge of our own lives, able to do whatever we want accountable to no one but ourselves, free of responsibility to others.

Parker Palmer

Chop Fayne

Considering that I spend a significant amount of time each day thinking about, looking for, preparing, and cleaning up meals it is surprising that I haven’t written much about what I eat, or as it is said in Pidgin, chop.  I usually find it an enjoyable challenge to experiment making American food with Cameroon ingredients.  Thanks to my Mennonite cookbook, More with Less, and the Cameroon Peace Corps cookbook, Chop Fayner, I have recipes to make everything from laundry soap to Apple Pie.  I’m  also fortunate to live in a house with a refrigerator, a stove, oven, and a freezer, in a region in Cameroon with access to plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables, and a white man store nearby to buy yogurt, cheese, and butter. 

My day usually begins with coffee and vanilla flavored powdered milk.  The coffee market in Cameroon is resurging after bottoming in the early 90’s.  My favorite kind of coffee, which I have only found in Kumbo, is called Every Sip a Safari.  It is my favorite not because of the taste, but because of what it says on the back of the package:

A wired galaxy of savored darkness

The swirling dark liquid in my cup, in my mouth.

Ah what soothing fire, a plague upon sleep this coffee is.

Seep sanity away, ye champion of caffeine.

Wither the coffee curves around blocks of ice in my cup

of a hot steam gallops from the hot liquid, I shall sip with affection and lust.

Sweep my stress away, ye champion of flavor.

Turn the jumbo into jingle.

Turn the swamp into a river.

Turn the woman/man into a lover.

Yet I plead to every God, and oath to every start, turn the water into coffee. 

What an ode to coffee!

That is the coffee package on the left, my French Press, and starbucks mug.  The mug was here when I moved into my house.  It brings a smile to my face to drink coffee from a starbucks mug even though I don't think there is starbucks on the African continent.

This is my vegetable mommy.  I buy tomatoes, onions, and pears (avocados) from her about two times a week.

This is me working in the farm.  Almost all of the women here plant, weed, and harvest by hand using that hoe. I usually don't help much, but provide a lot of comic relief as the African women pass by and laugh at the white girl trying to weed grass.

Picking pumpkin leaves for that night's dinner. I cooked the pumpkin leaves with tomatoes, onion, and salt and served with my version of fu-fu corn---cornbread!

Today I helped Emmanuela's family make ekwang. I call it a Cameroon version of manicotti, but instead of stuffing shells with cheese you stuff leaves with mashed yams.

We first started by washing the cocoyams,

destemming the cocoyam leaves,

 grating  the cocoyams into a fine mush,

putting into the leaves, rolling them,

and putting them into the pot and cooking it over the fire with tomatoes, onion, and crawfish.

Chop Fayne!

But I usually don't make Cameroon meals when I'm by myself.  Instead I make American food like pizza, tortillas and guacamole, lentil soup, cheese enchiladas, and bread.

Now that mangos are coming into season I'm beginning to experiment with the fruit.  The other day I made mango kuchen.  It is kind of like cobbler. 

In the picture is my locally made bread pan.  I went looking for a bread pan at the white man store and they brought me to a car part store where a man was making things out of sheet metal.  So yes, my bread pan is made out of sheet metal. 

I'm realizing that cooking in Cameroon is a good metaphor for life--making the most of what you have while adapting to the local context. 

Good food should be grown on whole soil, and be eaten whole, unprocessed, and garden fresh.

Helen and Scott Nearing

Living the Good Life

The Second Goal

Even though I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer, I sometimes feel I am still working towards achieving the second goal of Peace Corps service, “Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.”  Sometimes this happens without really intending to do so and other times it is an overt attempt to transfer skills and build capacity with my research colleagues.  Regardless, it usually turns out quite different than I expected.  For example, this past weekend Odette has been staying with me in my house.  I met Odette when I lived in Bafut as a Peace Corps Volunteer.  We both attended the Bafut Presbyterian Church and she would come once a week to wash my floors in my house.  When I visited Bafut for Youth Day, she asked if she could come to Kumbo during school holidays.  I said yes, but didn’t think it would actually happen.  Nevertheless, she called two weeks ago and said she was coming this week and how could I say no to such an excited voice on the phone?  She met me in Bamenda on Thursday accompanied me back to Kumbo.  When we got to my house Thursday night I asked, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”  “I will clean your dresses and dry clean your floor” was her reply.  When I heard this, I had two simultaneous thoughts.  First, only an African child would say that on vacation they want to wash clothes by hand and second, I get a break from having to wash my clothes by hand!  But I also wanted her to have fun while she was here and promised her that we would have a slumber party in the evening.  This was my attempt at sharing American culture.  I had a great plan of moving the mattresses from the beds and putting them in the loft and staying up late telling stories and sleeping in and eating pancakes the following morning.  After all, isn’t that what an American slumber party entails?  But this is what actually happened—it took some persuading that sleeping on mattresses on the floor would be fun, she went to bed before me at 9 pm, and after she woke at 6 am she immediately started sweeping my floor.  Well, I thought it was fun, and not because I didn’t have to sweep my floor that morning. 

Unfortunately, I cannot say that my attempts to transfer of knowledge and skills turn out any better.  Last week I was working with some colleagues of Dr. Okwen’s and Nancy’s because they wanted to learn about qualitative research methodologies.  I wasn’t exactly prepared to go over the mechanics of the process as I thought the trip to Bamenda would be about coding our data, not giving a crash course in health behavior change theories.  After the few hours of working with them on Tuesday and Wednesday, I’m not sure they really understood what I was saying.  Upon further reflection I was reminded of my bad habit of assuming because I understand how something works, everyone else does too and make too many leaps and assumptions in my teaching.  Instead, I think I should take a cue from the following picture:

This paper was posted on the stall of a flushing toilet in a training center.  I think many Cameroonians from rural areas come to the training center and may never have used a flushing toilet.  At first I found it humorous, but later realized it actually is a very good teaching tool because it provides step by step instructions and doesn't assume the reader has any previous knowledge or experience with using a flushing toilet. 

Maybe whenever I find myself working on the second goal my mantra should be, “Look to the toilet!” 

Men and women confronting change are never fully prepared for the demands of the moment, but they are strengthened to meet uncertainty if they can claim a history of improvisation and a history of reflection.

Mary Catherine Bateson, Peripheral Visions

Not Yet

I was sitting in the backseat of the Kumbo West District Medical Officer, Dr. Yota’s truck a couple of weeks ago listening to the conversation with his driver.  We were on our way to the health center in Kitikaium for a focus group discussion when we passed a signboard for the Government Bilingual High School.  “Ay-yah, these people are having a bilingual school?  Are they getting French teachers?” Dr. Yota asked.  “No, the teachers have not yet come,” the driver responded.  It was at that moment that I realized how often I hear the phrase, not yet.  The women for the focus group have not yet come, the electricity has not yet come back, the internet is not yet working, the taxi is not yet full of people, the food is not yet ready.  As I stop to think about it, the words “not yet” imply a waiting in expectation, hopefulness.  After hearing so many stories about the poorly functioning education system and the rift between the Anglophones and Francophones, I realized that if I was asked about the likelihood of a Francophone teacher coming to teach at a small village in the Northwest Region my answer would not be as hopeful as the driver’s.  I wonder, does growing up in a country where not yet is part of daily life make Cameroonians inherently more patient people? 

My mom took this picture in Cameroon last June.  Many taxi bumpers have similar hopeful sayings.  We both smiled when we walked past this man  as we realized he was certainly being very patient.

I know that while I am here I am forced to become a more patient person as I often have no other choice but to wait for the women to come, the taxi to fill, the electricity to come back, the internet to work, the food to be prepared.  Usually I do not mind waiting except when I get very hungry or have to use the toilet.  Regarding the latter, I try to hold out as long as I can, but when things get desperate and have to ask someone where the toilet is, I usually get the question, “Do you want to piss or shit?” as this determines which latrine I can use.  I am still practicing the art of answering questions about my bodily functions in public. 

On a deeper level, I have been pondering what does not yet mean for me spiritually.  The Princeton Theologian Gerhard Vos taught that the Kingdom of God is “already, but not yet here”  This means that we see glimpses of the Kingdom of God around us through miracles and gifts of the Holy Spirit, but we also still have poverty, war, sickness, and death because the Kingdom of God has not yet fully come.   However, unlike simply waiting for the women to come or the taxi to fill with an acceptance that there is nothing else to do but wait, I can co-work with the Holy Spirit to bring forth the Kingdom.  So now the question for me is how do I bring forth the Kingdom in my work here?  After conducting multiple key informant interviews and focus group discussions, it appears that my outcome variable for my research will change.  Originally, it was going to be intention for women to exclusively breastfeed.  However, based on our interviews and discussions it appears that almost all of the women have the intention to exclusively breastfeed for six months and we would not see much change because of our intervention.  I certainly have seen glimpses of God at work through and around me, but we have not yet found an alternative outcome variable.  This week we will begin analyzing all of our qualitative data and I am hopeful that we will find another way to further the Kingdom of God in this place. 

Waiting patiently in expectation is the foundation of the spiritual life

Simone Weil

Mt. Cameroon 2011

I like doing things a second time. I always have. I remember as a child on the rare occasion that we rented a VCR and a movie, I always wanted to rent a Haley Mills movie even though there were so many other choices. I think it comes from wanting to know what to expect. So I guess it isn't a surprise that I have returned to live in Cameroon a second time or that I recently hiked Mt. Cameroon a second time. The first time I hiked Mt. Cameroon was in 2007 with other Peace Corps Volunteers. This time I hiked it with Shirin and her boyfriend, Shaun. I met Shirin in 2007 when we were both working in Bafut. She has also returned to work in Cameroon for a few months and is based in Bamenda. At 4090 meters, Mt. Cameroon is the tallest peak in West Africa. It is a volcanic mountain which last erupted in 2000 and located next to Buea in the Southwest Region. Hiking Mt. Cameroon was one of my favorite experiences as a Peace Corps Volunteer because of the physical challenge and majestic views. I still remember when I was preparing for my last trip, Eunice said to me, "Sister, how are you preparing your mind for that mountain?" Well, thankfully with the aid of four porters and a guide I didn't have to do too much preparation. Below are some of the pictures from our three-day trek. More pictures can be found at: https://picasaweb.google.com/Kate.Reinsma/MtCameroon2011?authkey=Gv1sRgCOWL5qugs8KfWQ

View of Buea from the base of Mt. Cameroon

Starting the ascent from Upper Farms

Our first resting place: Hut One

Out of the forest and into the savannah

Hiking above the clouds

Our dinner of rice and stew the first night

The windy summit!

Hilary, one of our porters, with Buea in the background

View from the summit

The craters from the 1922 and 1999 eruption

Another crater

Relaxing at the beach at Limbe

Fish from down beach in Limbe

You are Making Sport?

The hills of Kumbo

Perhaps nothing exemplifies my life here better than my morning runs.  While running I am invariably asked the question, “You are making sport?” This phrase demonstrates how Pidgin English is a conglomeration of French and English as it comes from the French phrase, faire du sport and how Cameroonians make small talk by stating the obvious.  Thankfully, I have gotten used to this way of greeting and the sarcastic side of me no longer wants to yell back, “No I’m not making anything, I’m running!” Instead, I usually respond with, “I de try-oh!”   My typical route is out- and –back, usually lasting for an hour.  I meander through narrow paths alongside people’s mudbrick homes and farms.  The narrow path opens to a wide road that I follow up and down hills, through forests of eucalyptus and conifer trees, cross over streams, pass many goats, and the occasional cows.  I have moments of complete solitude and feel like I could be running in Ute Valley Park in Colorado Springs or Hulda Crooks in Loma Linda.  And then the silence is punctuated with repeated shouts of “White man!” or “Kimba” and transported back to Cameroon.  Kimba is the Lamso (the local dialect) word for white man.  These words usually come from small children as they are walking the long distances to school or outside their houses scrubbing pots and dishes from the previous night’s meal.  The only way to stop the incessant shouting is to yell back, “Good morning!” or “Black man!”  The latter tends to silence them faster as they sit in a state of shock from my unexpected response.  I pass older women, walking with backs hunched over and wrinkled faces after spending years planting and harvesting by hand, slowly making their way to their farm.  Occasionally they stop, look up at me, and clap their hands.  I greet them with a quick, “Ashia!” as I know the work I have to do in the coming day is nothing in comparison to what they will accomplish in their daily striving to feed their children and grandchildren.  Young men on motorcycles quickly pass me honking their horns warning me to move out of the way quickly.  Other people just stop and stare and usually a quick “Eranewa” (Lamso for good morning) either causes them to laugh or leaves them pondering at what I just said as I poorly attempt to speak the local dialect. 

As I am greeting everyone I pass, dodging motorcycles, goats, cows, and chickens I gaze at the hills around me and the path before me.  In the last week rain has fallen transforming the dusty trails to soft dirt.  Where I started running here a month ago I used to return to my house with ankles completely brown from the dust.  Now they are speckled with mud.  I reflect that in the same amount of time the loneliness I felt a month ago has been transformed to growing companionship from new friendships.  As I am running my mind drifts to various topics.  I think about my research and offer a quick prayer of thanks that we are moving forward and a prayer for discernment to know how to balance the needs of the community, the funder, my research assistants, and my doctoral committee.  I think about how grateful I am to have the health and the ability to be in this place, at this moment, living once again in Cameroon.  I think about my previous running partners, both physical and spiritual, that have accompanied me on runs in different parts of the world, and know that their strength is still with me even though not physically present right now.  I think about the new relationships I am forming here in Kumbo.  Such as with Doris, my housecleaner.  Her quick friendship, big smile, funny statements, and help in my house sometimes remind me so much of Eunice it brings tears to my eyes.  I think about how hard it will be to leave this place in seventeen months and pray that I may find the balance between my fear of the pain of separation in the future and my calling to be open and present in the here and now.

One of the favorite words in the Rule (Of St. Benedict) is “run”.  St. Benedict tells me to run to Christ.  If I stop for a moment and consider what is being asked of me here, what is involved in the act of running, I think of how when I run I place first one foot and then the other on the ground, and let go of my balance for a second and then immediately recover it again.  This is risky, this matter of running.  By daring to lose my balance, I keep it.

Esther De Wall, Living with Contradiction: An Introduction to Benedictine Spirituality

Na woman where don give bobbee

 I’ve heard that Pidgin phase a lot this past week.  We started interviewing different people in the community to find out what their current beliefs and practices are surrounding breastfeeding.  Nancy came up from Bamenda and she interviewed four people in Pidgin English on Friday.  I’m finding that the process of recruiting the interviewees has been just as interesting as their answers to our questions.  One of the beautiful things about interviewing people in Cameroon is almost everyone is willing and has the time to talk to you.  They find it quite strange that we ask them to sign a consent form prior to the interview.  One man insisted that he write his telephone number on the form as an additional way to identify him, even though the whole point of the consent form is to explain that we will do our best to protect their anonymity.  Later, Nancy and I were walking towards the Junction, as it called, looking for a man to interview.   We saw a Muslim man and thought he would be a good candidate.  Nancy approached him and asked if he had some time to answer some questions.  He looked at me and said, “Sure, if she’ll be my wife!”  I looked at Nancy and said, “Oh no, I’m willing to make sacrifices for this project, but I won’t go that far!”  Then with a big grin that revealed his missing two front teeth, he said, “But I have most of my teeth!” 

Regardless of the forays of recruiting interviewees, we are starting to collect some interesting information surrounding breastfeeding, such as the belief that a breastfeeding mother cannot have sex because it will spoil the milk for the child and that if a pregnant woman breastfeeds her child the child will get “runny stomach” (diarrhea).  Adhering to the first belief is problematic because the men will not abstain from sex for that long and they usually will have sex with other women during this time.  We have four more key informant interviews scheduled for this week and two focus group discussions, including one with Muslim men which I think will be particularly interesting. Too my surprise all of this is happening much faster than I expected and anticipate that we will begin our second phase by the beginning/middle of April. 

With all of these discussions about breastfeeding and childcare this past week I am reminded again of the silent strength and resilience of Cameroonian women. I watch Franklin’s mother hoe her farm by hand and admire her fortitude and grace of this fifty-something woman.  She left her abusive husband years ago and has raised her six children by herself in addition to her granddaughter and 2 nieces and nephew.  I also am in awe of Doris, my housecleaner, who cheerfully comes to my house every Monday and sings while she washes my concrete floor by hand.  She works full time at the LAP center, cooking and cleaning all day, before returning to her mud brick house where she is also raising her six children by herself.  My hope and prayer is that I can continue to understand what life is like for these women so that we develop an audio program that truly is beneficial and relevant.

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.  I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

Oriah, The Invitation