La vie au Nord

Our path traced the spines of mountains which ran through the north of Cameroon into Nigeria. The terrain was littered with rocks and patches of carefully cultivated fields of green, who’s age gave the false impression that the land cultivates itself. Small earthen huts rose up opportunistically here and there, like plants taking advantage of plots of sunlight in a forest.

After ascending our first steep incline, we found ourselves beside a jagged cliff overlooking the mountain range and valley we had just emerged from. The scene was speckled with similar cliffs, all of which seemed as though they had burst through the earth reaching its peak in a matter of minutes. While looking out over this landscape, tracing the paths of ant-sized individuals on  the mountains opposite, our pause seemed to attract attention.

Something that eventually became an expected occurrence here in the mountains was the slow trickle of individuals who would emerge from nowhere, after one stood still in any place for more than five minutes. One came to realize these mountains, a seemingly vast and empty plenum of nature in its solitude, were the common romping ground for the communities who live here, watching livestock and tending to their fields day after day.

Slowly, tattered clothes and bright curious faces emerged, who’s steady trickle gave one the feeling of an impending surge due to the silent reserve and unexpected nature of their oncoming. They clustered around us without saying a word, looking up to us with eyes firm from want, yet governed by the childishly self-aware implications of their imposition.

These children, like everything in the mountains here, had a mystic countenance found in the greatly contrasting elements of their being. Their presence was definite and self-assured; they carried themselves through their environment as if they had met its acquaintance centuries ago. However, an uncontrollable curiosity revealed their youth, as fear usually occupies this territory in adults. They had the same freedom and responsibility as their elders, yet their innocence remained untarnished. They were between the ages of 1-12.  We began talking with our guide, asking about the lives of these children: Why were they so poor? Isn’t their any education in this region? Don’t they go to school? His answers only further extended the vast abyss of culture, tradition, and values that lay between us. Our guide explained that these children are not in fact considered poor by local standards, as the crops and cattle they are minding is an indication of their family’s wealth. We look at their tattered clothes, their dirty faces, a baby on the back of a 6 year old, the work they are laboring at, and all we could see were  impoverished lives. However, as our guide explained, this is how life is here. Money did not exist until the miniscule tourism industry began several decades ago, and since it remains do, tourism holds little importance to daily life, other than the new and ever present desire to want more. Everyone in this region is self-sustainable, living off the land they till and the livestock they raise. If there is a surplus of production these goods are taken to the nearest market to sell. However, because everyone is farming the same crops and most often has a surplus of the same commodity, there then becomes little demand for the same goods, and so marketing isn’t relied upon. Bartering and trading replaces any monetary system here. And this is usually how people pay for the largest expense: schooling. The tuition usually equals the price of one cow per child. This may not seem like that much, aside from the fact is that after elementary school the only schools are sometimes as much as 400km from the nearest city, Maoura. Due to the length of this commute if a child goes to one of these schools their family must rent a house in the city and live there during the school year. This then requires the necessity of having money to pay for rent, food, clothes, transport, and other expenses. Because of this children usually do not get past elementary school. And because families tend to have an average of ten children, it is difficult for families to send children to school at all. Moreover, even for those who do go to school in the city finding a job is nearly impossible due to the economic system, agrarian society, and corrupt political culture. These children then live life much as their parents did, tending to the land in the same manner their ancestors had for centuries. As our guide explained all this to us we had since walked a distance up to some large rocks and sat under a tree where we ate our lunch. During this time the children sat silently watching us, taking in the slow profundity of nature, and succumbing to the ability it has to transform time.

 

Crab Sorcerer

The crab sorcerer is one perfect example of this type of animism, specific to the village of Rhumsiki. Centuries ago, his great grandfather had a dream involving a crab found in a nearby river who spoke of alarming events in the villages future, under the light of a full moon. After these predictions were actualized he and his descendants were the chosen sages of the village, using a crab in an earthenware pot to tell the future and produce valuable answers.

Every month on the full moon the crab sorcerer goes to the river between the twin sacred peaks of the village and selects a new crab for that coming month. The crab sorcerer told me between the ritualistic and passionate spits on the crab and myself, that I would work very hard my whole life and then one day abruptly change my mind, throw down my staff (he demonstrated) and, essentially, head for the hills. I think this is more or less accurate.

L’Extreme Nord

The mountains are as a rule a world apart from civilizations, which are an urban and lowland achievement. Their history is to have none, to remain almost always on the fringe of the great waves of civilization, even the longest and most persistent, which may be spread over great distances in the horizontal plane but are powerless to move vertically when faced with an obstacle of a few hundred meters. To these hilltop worlds, out of touch with the towns, even Rome itself, in all its years of power, can have meant very little..

-Fernand Braudel

 

 

 

The extreme north of Cameroon, nestled among the Mandera mountains, is a world entirely different from southern Cameroon. A different culture, different languages, different food, and general way of life slowly begin to emerge as one journeys up into this region, replacing the more mainstream, progressive, and gentrified South (relatively, of course).

Sitting in a bus invariably sandwiched between two people with immense arms, the landscape begins to flatten out. With steep imposing mountains irregularly lining the horizon, it seems as though you are traveling into a wide gaping open mouth, whose bare rock teeth jut upwards, out of  lush green gums. Buildings and shanties are replaced by Bukaroos, the traditional house, which is comprised of a cluster of small circular mud huts with conical straw thatched roofs. Suits, ties, and the motorcycles upon which they heave forth are replaced here with withered and wise faces on bicycles donning bright gowns (galabiyya) of the Muslim faith.

Islam is the predominant faith here, yet, like most of rural Cameroon, sorcery and witchcraft remain the foundation upon which these newer traditions persist. Each town has their own belief system dating back thousands of years, which is born from the sacred rock their village resides beside. Looking out over the landscape from one of these villages, it is easily grasped how mysticism is able to find its seat beside truth.

To live amongst these mythic stones, where one’s daily activities range from tending one’s crops, foraging for food for yourself and your animals, sitting in the shade of the village’s sacred tree that covets eternity, and drinking beer you made from your maize crop, make the mysticism and animism which is so alive in their faith not only possible, but necessary.

 

 

 

 

As if all these strands of life weave into one another to produce a faith which is wholly supported by the earth and the forces of nature which you are constantly swayed by. They are here a product of their environment, and their faith must complement this fact.

In the west we are not products of our environment, but self-proclaimed kings who reign over it through industry and air-conditioning.

To kill a chicken

Killing a chicken

I wanted to do the deed myself, but the men laughed and began discussing a bargain. It is not traditionally the women that kill the chicken, though done often enough, ‘la blanche’ assuming this role was like asking become president.

After the chicken was selected the young boys were put in charge, both had to be around 5.  I noticed that one of the boys passed a marble he had apparently been occupied with to his sister, so as to free his hands for the murder.

Without a sound, and with much self-affirmation, they together held down the chicken and cut its neck so the blood could drain out and slowly bring death into the eyes of our dinner. I was surprised, and a little disappointed at the lack of commotion.

They put it in a pot of boiling hot water so it could be easily plucked and most likely, due to the age and the all too excessive pride gained from doing the deed for tourists, the boys put the chicken in the pot prematurely. The chicken convulsed in the rusted pot spraying the air with boiling hot water.

One last hurrah.

Then the papa of the chicken shack came around shunning the boys with aggressive clucks and grunts, and with a crinkled brow and a indignant lower lip he made sure everyone knew he was dissatisfied with his boys work. He then re-cut the neck and finally put it in the boiling water, so he could finally pluck and clean the bird.

Bad news…

The other night I came home after meeting up with some friends to find the neighborhood shrouded in darkness. The bare bulb gold shimmer that usually breathes through torn lace curtains illuminating splintered wood frames and the empty gray halogen street lamp glows were all gone – The electricity was out in Logbaba.

I walked up to the house to see Solange illuminated by candlelight, which breathed through our lace curtains. She had food laid out for me as usual and we began to eat together, and talk about this and that.

I asked how her doctor trip was today and if her stomach was feeling better. Through broken French utterances in the past week I had got the sense that she had a stomach issue that I didn’t think much of.

However, as she began describing the trip, and taking out a small notebook with sonograms, diagrams, and the usual undecipherable physicians scrawl, I understood that this was something more serious.

I came to grasp that she has an extremely large cist on her ovary and needs to have an operation as soon as possible. She has known this since January, and the comparison between the sonograms then and now showed that its growth is alarming.

By the tone of her voice I understood that up until now this was something she had not made a big deal of, brushing it off with prayer and a strong countenance, but could see now in her face that this was something greater, especially as she has no way to afford the operation.

The operation would cost $1,000.

I told her that I would be able to raise half that much, if a friend in Germany would be able to cover the rest. So far I have received $320 and am extremely grateful for everyone who has been able to help me help them.

However, this is a new and more urgent call for help. If these children lost Solange they would end up on the street.

This is also not to mention the entire community that benefits from her leadership and activism to fight AIDS and defend childrens rights.

So taking this into consideration I hope you will help me help Solange, so she can get the operation she needs and can continue her fight to defend these kids and the greater struggles that dominate their depravity.

After we were finished speaking the lights went on, as if it signaled to us that there was nothing left to do, but hope.

She flung herself on the couch like a little girl and giggled because she said now she would be able to sleep. I asked why and she said because she can only sleep if the lights are on.

I think I will always find strength a paradox.  I hope you will help me keep this beautiful paradox alive.

Religion

Yells and screams come form the other room, but what catches my attention this time is their particular rhythm and measured cadences. Some of the children were yelling the tune at the top of their lungs, some only every so often to get out a muffled bust of frustration or excitement. I realized they were praying.

Clapping began, and this mélange of different voices and childish shouts wove itself into a devout reverence of god. I am not a practitioner of any religion, and usually am skeptical of the whole thing altogether based on my upbringing, though I am well aware of the benefits spirituality begets.

There have been, and still are, wars, crusades, genocides, and atrocities fought in the name of religion. This leads many non-believers to focus on the violence and hate caused by abstract non-material ideologies, which seem to have little to do with life, common sense, and reason. However, being witness to how religion takes its seat among poverty one can begin to appreciate the endowments it begets, and sense how these criticisms of it become presumptuous.

When the threads upon which your life rests are those made from reused plastic bags, and the others in whom you normally seek comfort and solace are dead or are so affected by the discomfort of this depravity they turn against you in hate, the void of reasons that follows becomes an insurmountable abyss. And how, without knowledge of the philosophical insights, worlds of literate geniuses who conjure miracles, and caverns of history defying regularity gained from an education, can one be expected to retie those strings with unflinching and selfless devotion? One cannot.

And not only can this not be expected of someone, but it more so cannot be expected that the vessel which necessarily fills that void of emptiness and solitude will not be filled with hate, selfishness, jealousy, and destruction. Thus, seen in this way one is able to understand how people survive in such chaotic and demonic poverty, live alongside one another, support one another, make sacrifices for one another daily without a second thought, and throughout all of this be thankful for everything, even when each of these things can be counted on your fingers or toes.

So this is what I understood, as Solange continued to preach to the children, reciting God’s words with resolute fervor. I understood how Solange, this incredible women who has suffered and lost more than one can imagine still sees herself with acquisitions larger than seas, and how she doles these acquisitions out to as many children and HIV/AIDS victims she can find. How she is able to live with AIDS, never having taken an anti retroviral drug in her life, and continue to plan for the future. How she is still as bright and determined as a little girl-who sleeps with the lights on. And how the children also stay happy, and bright, and healthy, and thankful, even though they all at one point have existed in a world where hell makes it it’s domain.

Graveyard in Deido

Walking through a graveyard in a foreign country is like looking in the mirror through the eyes of a native; similarly as one would feel rummaging through old postcards at a local flea market, visiting a national museum, or dining in a tiny local jaunt on a busy Saturday night.

How people choose to accommodate their dead reflects closely to how they choose to accommodate themselves during life. Like the realm of reincarnation and the souls continuous repose, one is able to see reflected in these conceptions the values and standards ingrained in a given culture, and in its given lives.

Walking through this graveyard in Deido rightly confirmed this notion. The sun hung low in the sky sending its rays to clamor for appropriately tilted surfaces to illuminate in its last hurrah before sleep; the grass was disheveled, and the graves were particularly dissimilar, almost as if their disunity was intentional. Garbage is strewn everywhere but each grave, through its individuality, seemed to accommodate this refuse with grace. From a first glance it seemed as if this were not a cemetery but a trash dump for imperfect headstones, based on the way space was allocated.

A trodden dirt path created by heavy slow moving and unknown soles traced the circumference of a non-designated territory. Within this circumference the graves, clearly buried from the outside inwards, seem to scramble for spaces, piling themselves atop one another. Cramming their elbows, and achieving their plots through righteous determination, it seems that those who struggled the most are rightly closer to the sky.

Fading photos of sixties and seventies hairdos set within crescents of metallic roses or severely sturdy crosses upon alabaster, white porcelain tiles, and very little excess in the way of embellishments, could be seen bobbing within the mound like remnants of a recently wrecked ship.

Proud and unquestioning of themselves, in the face of their uncomfortable situation, and those others, who constantly rub their shoulders vying for their piece of it all. From this indifference a certain dignity and power radiates, as you realize the specificities of cleanliness and order some hold to so tight are not even considered here. Grace is achieved after chaos’ embrace, and abandon is assumed. Once respect is maintained and tradition is observed, no questions are asked.

This is Cameroon.

Les Motos

A taxi is usually 200CFA (40 cents) and a moto around the same, depending on where you’re traveling. They are the heralds of chaos that bleed through the city’s nameless capillaries like blind rhinocerai. The heat, the smoke, and the noise that they perspire raise the tempo of each heart-beat carrying calm faced babies sandwiched between brightly clad ladies smirking from under their penciled-in-eyebrow glances.

Bike shops looking like black coal mine furnaces grace every corner, where colored clothing stands out: majestic, like dirty butterflies floating on the similarly coal black and built bodies.

Donations

Thank you so much to everyone who has shown support through their feedback on this site!

I have recently been struggling with the slow internet connection here to set up a Chipin donation page, but it has finally been connected through paypal and is under the “Donate Here!!” page.

Any donation would be appreciated more than one can imagine. The average person in Cameroon makes around three dollars a day, and it is around this price that it costs to one of 22 children at the orphanage per day.

The only money Solange has to support these children is that that she earns in the market each day. The rent is paid by a woman who came here 8 years ago, met Solange and saw her work, and as been her friend and supporter ever since.

Aside from how special this woman is, and how much impact her vision would be if it was made possible, life in Cameroon is extremely difficult and the need is extremely great.

I hope you will be able to spare whatever amount you can to help these childrens lives be a little bit better, and make Solange’s life a little bit easier.

The funds raised on this site will go directly into clothes, food, and medicine for the children, which will free up money and time elsewhere so Solange may focus on her true passion: working with AIDS victims.

I, and 22 other smiling faces, thank everyone in advance for their donations!!!

Market in Kribi