The REAL world.

Caddy adolescent girls love to say, “Wait until she goes into the real world; she’ll be eaten alive.” I remember hearing it and even saying it, then at one point my senior year at Sewanee I remember thinking, what exactly is the REAL world? What kind of world do I live in now? As we often joked that Sewanee is a bubble world, I questioned how many people would enter this REAL world and how would it differ from the world we knew. How many silver-spoon fed intellectuals would cross over to this rough and tumbling unknown?

It’s been a couple weeks since I entered this REAL world.  However, at that time, I did not have the ability to cleanly express myself without writing words that I could later regret.  I experienced new emotions of anger, frustration, hopelessness, and fear. The words you read don’t express the anxiety which they create within my Cameroonian family. The tears, the coughs, the slaps, the lack of noise, the adverting eyes, the open discussion of money, the waiting moments for test results—these aren’t words, these aren’t experiences, this is the real world. I have entered it without welcome.

Out of town relatives arrived in droves. I gained new responsibilities in the house and played the role of after school ‘Mom,’ making sure the kids ate and began their homework. Mariamou spent this time sitting at the hospital. The children innocently assumed I am getting married. Why else would so many relatives visit? I examined them softly with my eyes and sincerely wished that they were correct, that this was a joyous moment for all to celebrate.

Body language is the most precise form of communication. You can whisper, you can wait until they leave the room, but children know when something is wrong. More children than normal were living with us, and they fought like never before. I dispensed more Band-Aids in one week than I had my entire stint in Cameroon.

“You know when you see kids here that are crying that nothing has yet happened to them.” Mariamou spoke quietly. “What do you mean?” I questioned slicing a plantain. “Once your parents die, you learn to stop crying, what’s the point? That’s life.”

We learned that day that one solitary action has the potential to break down an entire family. An uncle in our family has contracted the HIV virus and has passed it to his wife. This news swept over us like a dark storm cloud and has yet to dissipate, and we are searching ways to play in the wind. He has since left the hospital and sits at home gaunt and fragile coughing and losing his mind. Trying to eat soup with a knife. His wife has gone through phases of starving herself, and refusing her retroviral medication. Is this the real world? Is the real world injustice and suffering?

The wife is angry. I feel she has a right to be. Her husband cheated on her. Now she has been diagnosed with a death sentence (the virus is far enough along that she receives government subsidized medication). She has no personal income. She has no formal education or trained skill. Her children will be one day orphaned (ages 3 and 5). Sound real yet? To exacerbate the situation, the family has blamed his sister because she asked him to move to N'Gaoundéré, to start over, because he was being promiscuous in another town.

My family, however, sees things differently that I do. I have been asked, “Why are women so complicated?” and “Why can’t she just forgive him and move on with it?”  With my temperament and lack of timidity, I have to say that my role in the house and as a woman within this community is about as simple as running through a labyrinth.  I want to slap the uncle, to yell at him and ask him if wearing a condom is so difficult? Was it worth abandoning his family? It all is too infuriating for me to discuss, so instead of losing any more sleep over it, I listen and think about how to express myself.

Figuratively, women are put in a closet and spoken to as children. Not allowed to go to school (that is changing in N'Gaoundéré as all but one girl in my quartier attend- but it remains 1 in 6 in the region), hold bank accounts, or have personal incomes, the women with whom I surround myself are caught in a constant conundrum of submission to males. I can’t stand it. It is their culture and it is changing out of necessity, but I am this middle person witnessing difficult moments of suffering and pain.

For two weeks I could not escape the prison of the AIDS dilemma. I did my work to the best of my abilities and ran in the afternoon, but sleep was still escaping me. My anger, frustration, and disgust took over the hours that my sheets begged to be silent. And then I decided to make a personal change.

At 6am that Saturday morning, I dressed and walked down the street to my first aerobics class. The teacher, a student of mine, had invited me before but I laughed at the thought. I am now a member and 4 time a week regular. The pop music fluidly carries the hour of dance, leg lifts, Tae Bo, and sit-ups practiced in front of fake mirrors. It is my escape.

I joined with a colleague of mine who has become one of my most admired mentors. Madame Abe Marie, fluent in 5 languages and studying English, she has practiced both Islam and Christianity and does not move 5 feet without someone yelling her name, smiling, and telling her to have a great day.  She understands the problems, concerns, and realities of women in the Adamaoua region. She represents Cameroon for the International Rural Women’s Conference and we spend hours discussing potential projects and her experiences. She’s the only woman in town I have seen with her own motorcycle, and it’s a Yamaha dirt bike for going off road to villages. She is also one of my business teachers. She has made a goal of taking the class village to village covering the Adamaoua region within the next three years! Nothing less than the word Fantastic describes her.

We visited a village outside of N'Gaoundéré where I frequently bike and she said “see that water pump, I help put it there!” She has a leadership program that she plans to launch for women in the next year and is currently taking female adolescent dropouts and putting them through an educational training course. One afternoon at her home, a woman came by and asked to speak with her. She giggled and said “my door is open, let’s have a consultation!” The lady complained of money woes and exasperated, “oh poverty, that’s Africa.” Madame Abe Marie quickly counteracted “Poverty is in one’s head. You can have money or you cannot have money, either way you are going to live. Real poverty is being in the hospital and not having the ability to do anything about it.” I agreed completely.

Madame Abe Marie told me that my students who already have businesses have saved money since they adopted budgets and other practices taught in the class! I am so proud! The reports are excellent and I want to announce the selected one’s to begin fundraising and organizing, however, it is much harder than I anticipated and I am doing more research to certify that the correct one’s are selected.

I had my first coaches meeting with the coaches today. Because I now have uniforms, I have leverage over them. I can say if you don’t turn in your roster by this date, your team won’t receive uniforms. Most teams have been practicing since the last season ended. Two games will be played for the national children’s holiday next week with the governor present. I planned a tournament at the end of the second season, but I have been told that the winners must receive trophy and envelope of money. This is the cultural cup norm. I told them Breaking Ground doesn’t support giving envelopes of money to teams and if that is how they feel we will not have a cup, case closed.

Last week I was invited to the University of N'Gaoundéré verses the University of Yaoundé Men’s game at the local stadium. I sat in the front row of the bleachers with 15 elders/grands from the community in a crowd of approximately 1000 people. I counted ten women, two who play in the Breaking Ground Football program. I did not know what to expect, but to my surprise the men thanked me and shook my hand. I don’t think anyone said my name; I am the promoter of women’s soccer. Some apologized that N'Gaoundéré is not advanced like Nigeria, where girl’s soccer has apparently taken off. It will happen here they said.

I did notice that the men’s jersey’s had a cell phone logo on them. As the N'Gaoundéré men’s team could not afford bottled water, I asked who puts up the money for their program. They have to travel to other regions, which does cost money. This cell phone company foots a lot of the bill along with the government.

My Football colleague and I have come up with many community service ideas for our players to teach younger girls how to play etc. The problem we constantly encounter, especially in N'Gaoundéré, is finding sustainability for a women’s program. Our latest idea is to find the country marketing director for Maggi Cube, an extremely popular spice product used for cooking throughout Central and West Africa.  Keep your fingers crossed.

If I have learned anything from entering the real world it is this. One, I am very thankful that I have family and friends who call me and care about my well-being. Two, I am being confronted with the exact things that I am combating with my soccer program, which teaches girls leadership and teamwork, as well as my business class, which empowers women with entrepreneurial skills and gives them freedom of their own financial decisions. I believe I can say I have a meaningful job. Small victories make the real world worth combating, but I still do not wish it upon anyone.

Departure, Return, and Resolutions

My last couple of days in Cameroon before I left for Christmas holiday were a blur. My phone was ringing non-stop: literally, I had 12 missed calls during one shower period. I had gifts given to me for my family, dresses sewn, food for my voyage delivered. I felt appreciated, albeit like people thought I was going to die or never return. I gathered the gifts and took my full bags to the train station. I was to leave at 9pm, so we loaded up as a family at 8pm. By 10pm the father, mother, aunt, and baby yawned and sleepily trekked home. Daouda, a friend and Mariamou’s brother, stayed with me until 2:30am when I boarded the train.

The train station is the apex of people watching. You get to see everyone from the grands to the poor, all ethnic groups, men and women, young and old - everyone takes the train. One young couple kisses publicly and the girl wearing jeans lights her cigarette. An elderly lady’s face peeks through bright fabric as she washes her hands, face and feet, lays down a prayer rug facing Mecca, and prays to Allah until the train boards. Babies cry and frolic. An albino man searches for dinner from local venders with luck. Adolescent males, unsuccessful thieves, get dragged outside of the crowd, with their heads down in shame, by police officers.

I often tease my students who speak fearfully about pickpockets, which exist everywhere in the world, but I don’t stress over. They carry purses, but sew little pockets into their skirts and underwear where they guard their money. When they pay for things I always feel like I am seeing something I shouldn’t as they stick one hand down their skirt and pull out wads of cash or coins. But inevitably, it is PG rated. They also keep their cell phones in their bras. When it rings and lights up it’s like their breast, without warning, decided to have a party. After watching about 15 arrests, my money and passport slipped into my underwear and my cell pirouetted into my bra. I really didn’t think anything of it.

Arguably, the train is romantic. It makes me feel like I am dreaming my way through Cameroon traversing through cities, villages, jungle, and countryside. Hearing the clink clank of the train and my body jolting to the sudden stops, I can change the century or decade with each dream sequence. The distance would take less than 6 hours in a decent car on reasonable roads, but the train makes the voyage last between 12 and questionable hours. My trip took 16, not including the wait beforehand. I slept most of the time and looked out the window or read for the rest.

I arrived in Yaoundé phone in bra, cash in crotch and met up with Taguem’s wife. When my phone rang and my right breast started to groove, she quickly asked me what my phone was doing in my bra. “It’s for security, everyone does it!” I don’t remember if she answered or if her look alone explained that I needed a vacation, but I understood. Take your phone out of your bra, you’re in the capital now, and that is embarrassing. After three months of not taking a single day to myself, I took my phone out and headed to the beach for two days before my long journey home.

Home was not as difficult for me as the first time I returned from Cameroon. I knew what to expect and what to ignore. Examples: A good simple question “ What do you eat and how is it prepared?” A bad question “Do you speak African?” or statement “ You can’t return, there are problems in Kenya!” Instead of getting frustrated or trying to teach a lesson on Africa, I just simply ignored the second grouping, often changing the subject. I would like to break stereotypes and educate, but frankly it starts with reading a newspaper and looking at a map, wanting to know for yourself. And, it was my vacation. Furthermore, Cameroon is a diverse paradox and once I begin to explain one aspect of life here, I feel I have to explain much more. For the most part I appreciated the interest that people had in what I do, and hope that people will take a greater interest in self-education and current politics from the responses I gave.  Fun fact: the United States is approximately the same size as the Sahara desert. It is estimated that the continent of Africa is the size of the United States, Europe, and China combined.

My New Years resolution is to stop judging other expatriates. F. Scott Fitzgerald opens The Great Gatsby with “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone…just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” When I meet up, typically at a bar or to cook dinner, with other foreigners I become overwhelmed.  It only happens a couple times a month, but usually I run home and tell my family I won’t eat out again.  I blame myself in part for not wanting to talk about work or politics, but I also don’t like to compare what I do to others’ work. Everyone is in an entirely different situation and I find it pointless in many ways to compare and try to find success in one’s work when it’s incomparable. It inevitably becomes a game of security searching and proving your work as sustainable and just.  It also baffles me that I should befriend people just because they may look similar to me or come from a western country. Often, that is all we have in common, besides the fact that we live in Cameroon.  So I decided to work on this problem of mine. I will listen more, and not criticize preemptively.

My first test was 30 minutes after I landed in Douala. I refer to Douala, the port city of Cameroon, as the armpit of Africa. Sprawling population, sweltering humidity, appalling sanitation, potholes, and a reputation for being unsafe: I didn’t want to be there, much less alone.  My ride didn’t show up. I have never been in Douala alone and had no idea where to go. Quick, don’t panic, think—I saw two white men at baggage claim and moseyed towards them to feel them out. I stood beside them for a couple minutes before asking if they knew of a decent and safe hotel.  We bantered tired, but amicably, for a couple minutes and I disapproved of their hotel options that cost, in a night, more than I normally spend in a week.

When it was absolutely definite that I had no ride, the men offered graciously to help me find a hotel. Conversation continued and we spoke of home and family, looking for something that relates us. As they come from the DC area, I told them of my boarding school days at The Madeira School. I don’t know if surviving Madeira made me a damsel that needed to be saved from the perils of Douala, or what, but minutes into the ride they offered for me to crash at their apartment complex. Given the situation I was in (side note—I couldn’t lift my bags by myself as it appears I have soccer gear for every girl in N'Gaoundéré) I gladly accepted to go to these strangers apartment. No reservations.

We discussed work and I learned they work for a well-known American/Cameroonian company that does work countrywide. When I learned this I joked, “hey you really need a second computer in my town, and more staff, it can take 4 hours to pay your bill.” It took me about 30 seconds to realize that I needed to take a spoonful of shut-the-hell-up and say thank you. However, to my surprise, they helped me successfully pass my first test of my New Years resolution. They responded that they certainly know there are problems, more than I know, and their work, just like mine, is complicated. I am glad that I was innocently rude and that they responded as they did.

In the past I judged foreign business workers here. They live a comfortable, if not plush lifestyle. But they, unlike me, have children at home and have lived a more mature and settled lifestyle before they came to Cameroon. I believed international businesses played by different rules that I deemed unethical. After discussing my thoughts, I learned that these men would rather play by the rules of business they know, but Cameroon is corrupt and has a large population of citizens that have not received the same style of education, thus making business much more difficult. They don’t have the choice, necessarily, to play by the same rules. It’s challenging to find well trained and motivated foreigners to come to Cameroon without paying them obscene salaries and difficult to find Cameroonians qualified for the job. It doesn’t seem fair to pay a foreigner more money than the Cameroonian next to him for a comparable job; however, the sacrifices of leaving his or her country are higher. It becomes complicated. It’s not like just because they have money, these men don’t face the challenges of Cameroon as well. Possibly the challenge is greater as they are more alienated, because of there status, from the population with whom they work.

When they opened their bags, loads of diapers fell out. I honestly think that is all they packed. Diapers are expensive or non-existent here and if I read them correctly, as fathers, that seemed inconceivable. I thought the night ended up being really fun. We worked out at the local gym, they cooked dinner, and we watched a movie. One man gave me his apartment, which wasn’t over exorbitant, but a one-bedroom apartment similar to how many twenty-somethings live in the States. He stayed at his friends and even let me keep a towel as I had forgotten mine at home. The next day I was escorted to the bus and continued my travels. I feel indebted and grateful to the two men whom I sought out for help and only wish that something of similar merit will in return be given to them.

I traveled through Yaoundé, and then jumped on the train for N'Gaoundéré. I had not walked a foot out of the gate before Mariamou embraced me and Souriaya was in my arms. Family—they too are my family and it was more than wonderful to be welcomed with loving arms on this continent as I am at home in the States. They built me a desk in my room with a lamp as a surprise. I spent countless hours in the fall grading papers and writing out plans on the backside of an oversized plate. The desk is a sleek brown patent leather material upholstered to wood with a matching chair.  I have determined that it will save my back.

My life strangely went back to normal and within an hour I had my Tantine meeting (I had forgotten to leave money while I was away and owed the presidents 2000 FCFA!), then we all headed as a group to the hospital. When someone is sick, you visit. Sadly, I know the two hospitals here as if I were raised in them. Someone is always sick and as life rages and babies are born, sickness prevails and death tolls. My friend’s husband has had over two liters of fluid drained from his side, however, today he sat up and we are hopeful. On another note, Mariamou is pregnant. I have known this but waited to announce it publicly. She went to have her first scan and the doctor said that she looks unusually large. He suspects twins. Mariamou told him that she didn’t want to know without me here, and told him she was going home and would return for the scan once I returned. I guess everyone needs a hand to hold sometimes. I am flattered it’s mine she seeks.

Soccer meetings are being planned with coaches and the games will continue in mid February. Business proposals have been submitted, and I’m in the process of reviewing them. The project proposal of a village infirmary in Djilougou has been postponed as the road bandits are now a constant threat and I cannot travel there. The paradoxes of life continue to enthrall me here, and I am excited to be back, but am not making haste like last fall. Fitzgerald later wrote and I must not forget, “Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.” As it may be impossible not to judge, it is possible to be more open-minded and tolerant. That is my resolution.