Friday, October 26, 2012

Room Number 5


About one year ago my post-mate, Eriika, and I left our town to visit our closest volunteer neighbor, Richard, who lived in a small village called Bamena, not to be mistaken for Bamenda the regional capitol of the North-West.  Another volunteer, Lindsay, was in his village that same day so we decided to make a nice little night of it.  We were going to make some chili, drink a little wine and maybe play some board games. 
Seeing that this was the first time any of us had ever been to Richard’s house, he was obliged to give us a tour.  His house was very simple but also quite large, there was a long hallway that ran along the back of the house with doors to several rooms.  He opened each door showing us the mess of stuff he had accumulated over his two years here.  For some strange reason all of the doors in Richard’s house were numbered, we finally got to door number 5 - but it was locked.  Richard explained to us that the house was vacant when he moved in but a Cameroonian couple had lived there some time before that.  The husband of this couple passed away in his sleep one night in room number 5 and the room has still to this day not been cleaned out. I asked Richard if he had ever been inside room number 5 and he pensively responded “yes”, when he first visited the house before he moved in the landlord opened the door for him and told Richard to never open it again.  He was confused but obediently obliged.  Richard told us to not think too hard on this but to get back to what we came there for, making chili. 
Eriika and I didn’t exactly heed Richard’s advice, while the others were finishing preparing the meal we were nosily trying to pick the lock to room number 5.  Just as they finished setting the table to eat we got it, the door swung open.  I had anticipated a certain level of creepiness before opening the door but for some reason I felt a much eerier feeling than I thought I would.  There was a large unmade bed with blankets positioned as if someone just woke up, several pictures framed on a desk, a book on the bedside table and even a giant life-sized portrait of the man propped against the wall.  The whole nine yards when it comes to creepy dead guy rooms.  Lindsay quickly skipped over to the door to see what we were awing at but Richard called us back to the table to eat. 
As you could imagine, our dinner conversation was dominated by the contents of room number 5.  We talked about how strange it was that the landlord never cleaned it out and we came up with crazy ideas of our own to answer this question.  Just as the conversation began to evolve and we started thinking about other things we heard the creaking of a door coming from the long hallway, we fell silent.  No more than 15 seconds later the candle on the table blew out and the dim overhead light began to flicker.  Our senses were heightened as we sat there silently for what seemed like an hour trying to detect whatever was around us.  Richard eventually tried to ease our tenses by saying “it sometimes gets a little drafty in here”.  He re-lit the candle and we got back to eating our chili. 
The meal was done but scrabble was just getting started.  If I remember correctly Eriika gave Richard the easy lay-up for the first win by pointing out “a good spot for anyone that has a Q”, I was livid. We played a couple more games and then decided to figure out the sleeping arrangements.  Richard only had one bed so we set up some nice looking makeshift sleeping piles on the floor.  We were all sitting around on the floor talking before bed when we first heard it. 
The harsh sound of metal meeting rock and the incomprehensible mumblings of an old Cameroonian woman are rare even in village, especially at this time of night.  Richard rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, a real what-now kind of expression.  He quietly walked to one of the windows and opened the shade; these windows had bars by the way.  Thank God.  We peered out the window and saw a middle-aged woman attempting to dig in Richard’s front yard with a shovel that was nothing more than a wooden stick with a couple worn down blunt inches of metal on the end.  It looked like she was upset and had been in tears.  I was a little nervous at this point but couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of this situation.  The Cameroonian woman failed to see the same humor I saw, she heard my laugh and wide-eyed limped towards our window with a face now empty of all expression. 
“What the…”
“Shhh!”

She inched closer and closer at a pace that would have made a snail look like a torpedo, her back was bent from what looked like years of hard work, her body seemed to be asking a question.  She got to the window and we retreated to the middle of the living room huddled together bound by fear.  She started yelling through the window “Macat, Macat” in a high-pitched shriek.  We immediately recognized what she was saying, “Macat” translates to “White Man” in our local dialect and is a word we hear each day while walking down the street.  
This Woman was persistent, she proceeded to approach each window and peer inside while whaling the name “Macat” her voice sounded troubled and desperate.  After several minutes of this Richard finally called his neighbor, he arrived in seconds and aggressively forced the woman to leave the yard and not come back.  Before he left he asked us one question, “Why did you open door number 5?”  We tried to talk to him further but he insisted that we go to sleep and he would explain everything in the morning.  

Seven O’clock could not have come any sooner, the knock on the front door that we had waited all night for jolted us up from our half-sleeps.  Richard quickly opened the door and invited his neighbor inside.  His neighbor sat down on the couch, not comfortably, and prepared to tell a story.  Judging his body language, slow talking and deep exhales you would have thought he was going to tell a group of children that Santa Clause did not exist.  Over the course of the next 15 minutes he told us this:

Some years ago a married couple had been living in Richard’s house, they had been eagerly trying to have children for many years but were unsuccessful.  Just when it seemed impossible, the wife became pregnant.  She went through a full 9 months of pregnancy and fell into labor.  To her husband’s grave disappointment on a day he had been awaiting for many years, his wife delivered a still berth.  This was too much for the wife to bear; she just couldn’t allow herself to believe this truth.  The following days the new mother cared for her dead child, nursing it, singing it to sleep, tying it to her back as she confidently walked through the market.  The other women in the village who knew the truth about the baby began calling it “Macat” because of its pale lifeless complexion.  The husband, not knowing what to do, went along with this for several days for to not break the heart of the woman he loved.  After nearly a week he had had enough.  In the middle of the night one evening he woke up, grabbed the baby, a shovel and headed outside.  He gave the baby a proper burial and returned home.  When he walked in the door his wife was waiting for him, she too had awoke in the middle of the night.  She demanded for her baby and the husband realized he had no choice but to explain to his love the grim reality.  He told her that he buried the dead child but would not reveal to her where.  Weeks went by and the wife would not leave her house, she spoke no words to her husband and cried herself to sleep.  She could not find it in her heart to forgive him.  One night while her husband was asleep in room number 5, the wife quietly entered the room and killed him.  She fled the house taking only with her the shovel that her husband had used that dreadful night.  It is believed that she spends each day and night searching for her lost infant, digging holes along the mountainside.  She has been seen as far West as Bafang and as far North as Bafoussam, digging holes and muttering “Macat” over and over again.   As for room number 5, it is kept shut and locked to contain the spirit of her husband who leaves the room each time the door is opened to find his wife and bring her back to the spot of the burial.  His guilt for burying the one thing his wife loved more than he stayed with him to the grave. 

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Summer, thus far


I apologize for the scarcity of my blog posts.  As usual, a lot has happened since my last blog entry, which was several months ago.  Here is a little recap of the summer:

In Cameroon, particularly the West region, summer means the beginning of the rainy season.  We waited a long time to see our first rain of the season this year, I was told by locals that the extended dry season was due to climate change, normally, rainy season begins in April, this year it began in May. It was a relief to everyone to receive that first substantial rain, all the dirt and dust that covered the sky during the dry season was forced to the ground by the rain, slowly seasonal coughs went away and lushness was restored to the landscape. 

In addition to the rain, May also brought along my twenty-fifth birthday and the beginning of June marked the one-year anniversary of my arrival to Africa, both of which were large milestones and occasions to celebrate.  A new group of volunteers came into the country in June and I had the opportunity to help with their training.  I was given the immense responsibility to help out with “MBT” (Mountain Bike Training) which meant I gave a small presentation on bike safety and maintenance and then presented each volunteer with the bike they will be using over the next two years.  I also helped out with teaching a model business school and hosted the new group at my post for a one-day field trip.  Overall, it was a great opportunity to meet the group of volunteers that will soon be spread out all over the country and share with them whatever perspective I have formed on Peace Corps service up to this point. 

Summertime is often a slow period for Peace Corps volunteers here in Cameroon, education volunteers simply get three months off and us business volunteers try to correlate some of our time off as well.  A couple weekends ago nine other volunteers from all around the country came to my city for the second annual live fantasy football draft.  We spent one day doing various competitions to determine the draft order and the second day we drafted.  It was fun seeing some of the people I was in training with a year ago and it was the first time we had all been together since last December.  

More recently, I found out that weekly basketball games happen here in Bangangté every Wednesday and Friday, it took me an entire year to learn this.  I went and played yesterday for the first time and after we had played for a bit we broke up and played small games of one-on-one.  The basketball court is at a high school and even though its summer a lot of kids still hang out there playing sports and what not, while I was playing one-on-one a crowd of high school students gathered around to watch, probably the most people that have ever watched me play basketball.  I must have been the first white guy they had ever seen play the sport because the whole thing turned into a spectacle after a couple minutes.  I’m not sure if these kids just had a little Olympic fever or if they really felt hostility towards white folks but the entire crowd was relentlessly heckling me the entire time I was playing with things like “Les Blancs sont faible” (White people are weak) and “Les Camerounais sont plus solide que les blancs” (Cameroonians are stronger than white people) which may actually be true but that’s not for them judge… The heckling inspired me to play my hardest, I mean I absolutely left it all on the court.  I opened the game by going up 3-0 on my Cameroonian opponent, 2 straight drives to the hoop and one fluke jump shot.  The fourth shot, my overconfidence took over and I bricked it off the rim, with cheers from his fellow countrymen my competitor snagged the rebound and took the ball outside.  What happened next was unbelievable; this guy sank 5 straight jumpers in a row to win the quick match.  I never even got another chance with the ball.  Despite my loss, my competitor was a great sport and I'm sure I'll make a point of going back out there to play again.

I’m sure some of you have read through this blog hoping to hear about some of the projects that I am working on while here in Peace Corps, after all, your tax dollars don’t pay for me to play basketball and do fantasy football drafts.  This summer I finished up a 12 week business class at the local prison (I posted pictures on facebook a couple weeks ago) it was an excellent experience to share some of my knowledge with people that hopefully can really use it to better themselves when they get on the outside.  Of 11 people that started the course, five ended up receiving certificates.  Additionally, my primary project has evolved a bit, I am now spending most of my time working with a Women’s group that produces shea butter.  As a Community Economic Development Volunteer (business volunteer) I have seen a large opportunity for growth with this group.  The primary purpose of this Women’s group is to improve the quality of life for its members, allowing them to be financially independent and autonomous.  As a means to reach this end, they collect, process and sell shea products and other natural bath products.  In the coming months I hope to help them with a gps-mapping project of the naturally growing shea trees in the area as well as improving their production processes by acquiring some basic machinery to grind and mix the nuts.  The president of this group was awarded a ticket to travel to Washington DC during the month of August to be a part of a Women in Development conference.  An agricultural volunteer before me had applied for her and she was accepted, the returned volunteer, Richard, was there waiting for her at the airport.  It must have been an amazing moment to reconnect with someone he worked so closely with during his time here in Cameroon. 

Anyway, I hope that gives people a little window into what I’ve been up to over here recently.  Also, I’d like to say Congrats to my Cousin Mike and his new finacé, Kim, to my Cousin Marcie and her new husband, Derek and to my buddy Rishi for getting into grad school in St. Louis.  Way to make me feel like I’m missing out on everything guys…

-Matt

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Some Shorts

I picked up some custom shorts made from traditional African fabric last week, but this blog entry has nothing to do with that.  This is a compilation of short grumblings and observations.

African Mornings


Mornings here in Cameroon are probably not so different from mornings in most developing countries, or even rural areas for that matter but anyone that has ever spent more than one day with me knows that I’m not what people call “a morning person”.  Here is a list of things that my half conscious sleep-state and pillow smothering battles with each morning by 6:00am:
•  Roosters crowing – an obvious one that plagues billions of people worldwide.
•  Dogs barking – I don’t know if it’s the incessant crowing of the roosters that triggers this but it is particularly bad whenever I look at my watch and realize I only have one more hour of sleep.
•  Goats screaming – I’m not sure what the noise a goat makes is actually called but these goats scream.  To make matters worse whenever I’m half asleep it always sounds like they are screaming my name as if I need to get up and talk to them. “Mmmmaaaaaaatttt Mmmmmaaaatttt”
•  Ducks quaking – just tack it on to all the other animal noises
•  Car and/or Moto engines revving – This is tough to explain but it seems like throughout this country every small neighborhood doubles as a mechanic shop.  I guess people have trouble starting their vehicles in the morning...
•  Trash trucks blasting their horns – *Disclaimer* only on Thursdays.  It took me nearly four months to realize what this sound was.  Every Thursday is trash day here in Bangangté and the trucks go out in huge numbers.  To display their dominance on the roads, each truck was equipped with a horn that sounds like a mix between a tornado siren and a river barge.  Foundations shake, babies cry and the sun shines a little less bright…
•  Crows on my tin roof – This is the Big Mac of all my morning enemies.  There are battling civilizations of crows living on my tin roof.  Wars are waged each morning for territory and power.  Crow Generals may come and go with the battles but the fight maintains.  These flying beasts march feverously on my tin roof with their heavy raptor-like talons, when they land it sounds like bowling balls being dropped on my roof.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they used such weaponry.

My Love for Dogs

Is waning.  I think I’ve mentioned the guard dogs in my compound before on this blog and how I thought after my first couple months they would warm up to me.  It’s been six months at post and the situation still hasn’t changed other than the fact that I’m just more careless with my entry and exiting of the compound.  Last week I entered the gates of my compound and was greeted by the two dogs, all seemed fine.  I kept my alpha male dominance face on and proceeded to walk to my door.  The female dog, who just had pups, started barking uncontrollably, her usual move despite the fact that she’s cool with me petting her when she’s by herself.  When she freaks out barking like that it fires up the male dog.  As I was walking to my door he ran and charged me, typically it’s a fake charge and he stops a foot or two in front of me and shows his teeth.  This time he came in hard and latched on to my shoe.  He didn’t bite too hard but kept the kind of grip and growl going that said “I could freaking rip your leg off right now if I wanted to”.  Panicked, I took a small Jif to-go peanut butter container out of my pocket that had just been gifted to me by my wonderful post-mate and threw it into his cage all while screaming “Vien Ici!” (Come here).  I was yelling at my neighbor/owner of the dog who was standing 15 feet away on his porch, he did nothing but laugh...  The dogs ran into the cage after the peanut butter and I quickly locked them up.

Any dog whisperer advice would be cool…

In Closing


I haven’t written on this blog in months so it was difficult to choose something to write about, a lot of worthy bloggable stuff has happened since my last entry.  Instead of choosing something, I copped out and wrote about stuff I deal with everyday.  To name a few things that have happened: I went to the beach for a week and met up with all the volunteers in my training group, had an awesome Christmas at my house, great New Years Eve in Yaoundé, went waterskiing and sailing on a nearby lake with the mayor of Foumbot (forgot I was in Peace Corps for an afternoon), great MLK day celebration at a nearby volunteers house, started teaching English and Computer classes at a local NGO/youth space, started working with a women’s group that produces and sells shea butter, been introduced to a couple other groups in the community I can work with further, had many lonely nights at my house, been yelled at from people on the street to return home because of the color of my skin, have also been thanked for being here, met many more amazing people than shitty people and overall have been having a blast during the first quarter of my Peace Corps service and I wouldn’t trade one day of it.

Much love folks, hope it was an okay read.

-Matt