La Fête de Ramadan

As a student here in 2004, I rarely told Cameroonians if something upset me. I felt extremely conscious about accepting their culture and respecting it for what it is. Now that I am back for work, my cultural sensitivity can be better defined as cultural realism. For example, the other day I sat outside separating leaves to make a sauce when two cow legs (from the knee down) were dropped off. Quite obviously they were freshly cut. That night the skin was roasted off and the bones were chopped with an axe, then put in water and boiled with tomatoes and onions. This meal is expensive as one cow leg/hoof is $5. You eat it with bread and pull out the meat from the bone. I think it is great that they use all parts of the cow. In 2004 I would have eaten this for dinner and said thank you. This time around, before it was prepared, I made the announcement that cow hoof really isn’t my thing. Just as they are hesitant to eat macaroni and cheese, I am uncomfortable with cow hoof. I don’t feel by any means that I am being rude or degrading their culture, I am just defining my role and what I am comfortable with. Living here is different than traveling and if I’m not direct and honest the first time I am uncomfortable with something, I better be prepared to see it again.


Ramadan ended Friday the 12th. I didn’t realize that it ends when the Lamido decides it is over. The Lamido is the Fulani ruler. The Fulani people select him, but usually the position is passed down through family. He is wealthy, has many wives, and can be a liaison between the people and the government. This year the Lamido decided that Ramadan ended on Friday, when everyone had expected it to end Saturday. School kids cheered as last week was an exam week and school was cancelled (their version of a snow day) and Mariamou panicked, as she still had not made her clothes or prepared all her food for the party. I found myself cutting carrots and stringing green beans at midnight.




Friday morning came and suddenly the town was beautiful. Cameroonians, regardless of which ethnic group, are beautiful people. Everyone in town wore knew clothes and jewelry; joy was all around. That night I was late coming home and I noticed a strange feeling in the house. I wasn’t sure if I had done something wrong, so I ate my dinner and went to my room. A couple minutes later I heard screams and my door flew open. We were going to the cinema. We joined well over 350 people in a huge auditorium supposedly built by a French person years ago. Since Mariamou dressed me, I was in a green outfit with huge shoulder puffs and a head tie. This was Mariamou’s second time to go to the movies (last time she was 15) and she was beyond excited. She repeatedly told me how lucky she is to have such a nice husband, and I agreed.


After searching for seats and fighting the crowd, we decided to head to the balcony. The show started with a famous Fulani singer, followed by a comedian, and then again the singer with backup dancers. This was a cultural experience to say the least. Everything was in Fulfulde including the movie, which included the word Action in English before each scene. The words were muffled, but the script was not difficult to follow. The wife was cheating on her husband. He hit her and cried. She ran away and was alone for the rest of her life. I was not surprised in the least that the plot consisted of a woman that did something wrong. This seems to be a common theme in Fulani movies. The program ended after midnight and I was exhausted.



Saturday consisted of visitors and more parties. I went to the festival at the Lamido’s house where I was warmly welcomed because I had a camera. Imagine hundreds of people watching a parade. I was constantly pushed into the center, where horses were galloping at full speed, to take pictures. When the horses came too close, someone would grab me and pull me back, and once the horses passed I was pushed back into the center and everyone would yell, Film Film Film! It was an awesome ceremony. Men wore traditional costumes and played traditional horns and drums. The Lamido rode a white horse and carried an umbrella; he was fanned with palm leaves to stay cool in the heat. The women in his family wore matching clothes and yelled together (like Americans do as children playing cowboys and Indians). I was told that there is a party in December where everyone kills goats. My house alone kills and eats two goats.





Sunday, the family dressed up and visited friends, giving them small cakes. I biked to Crater Lake. A 40-minute bike ride along dirt roads, made a great day trip for a picnic. When Marimou returned home, Ishmaila told us we were going to a restaurant (the 3rd time in Mariamou’s life)! Mariamou and I arrived first and waited for the others. The waitress handed us menus and I began to read. In less expensive restaurants the menu is told to you as typically restaurants have about 4 meals which change daily. Mariamou giggled and asked, what will you eat? I said, give me a minute to read the menu, how do you already know what you’ll have? She looked at me and giggled even louder and said well there’s a picture of a chicken, eggs, and a drink. The chicken looks the best to me. I forgot that she does not read. We laughed really hard as I proceeded to read her the menu. We both chose chicken and fries.