I wanted to blame it on the episode of “Downton Abby” - an
episode that wouldn’t reach U.S. airwaves for months.* It was heart
wrenching. A death in the family. But maybe it was because my emotions had just been given a steroid shot, or more likely, it was the impending holidays and being far away from family for a second year in a row. Maybe it was an approaching monthly visit from Aunt Flo, whose stopovers can sometimes create an allergic reaction in me with side effects akin to werewolf transformation at the slightest peek of a full moon. Maybe it was the freshly received news of the mass shooting and killing of so many children in New Jersey. Or maybe it was the eighteen months of Cameroon living, but for whatever reason/s, as I sat in my apartment watching, something went off in the deep, dark recesses of my brain, and I became a blubbering mess. There came this unstoppable torrential tear downpour. I felt so embarrassed - despite there being no
one around to bear witness.
Strangely though, in that sick sadistic way in which I like to poke at my own bruises, it felt sort of okay. I needed it, with its Drano-like effects helping to flush some of the sad and grit of the last while out of my brain. It was something I had not done for so long. Even though I like to pretend I’m some sort of amateur stoic, I’ve never been very good at saying “no” to donating a few daily tears for a sappy TV commercial or some cheesy, emotional firework-igniting song. Those prevalent moments, which are like seeing the little red Salvation Army bucket swinging in rhythm to the good doer’s hand bell, are amazing compellers for making me contribute something. Yet from almost the first day arriving in this country, my ability to feel strong emotions seemed to drain from me and my impressive self-regenerating tears went on sabbatical – forcing the realization of owning lazy tear ducts. They didn’t want to have to work overtime and preferred sitting comfortably numb.
*PCVs are impressively resourceful when it comes to keeping each other up-to-date with freshly released eye-craving media.
Strangely though, in that sick sadistic way in which I like to poke at my own bruises, it felt sort of okay. I needed it, with its Drano-like effects helping to flush some of the sad and grit of the last while out of my brain. It was something I had not done for so long. Even though I like to pretend I’m some sort of amateur stoic, I’ve never been very good at saying “no” to donating a few daily tears for a sappy TV commercial or some cheesy, emotional firework-igniting song. Those prevalent moments, which are like seeing the little red Salvation Army bucket swinging in rhythm to the good doer’s hand bell, are amazing compellers for making me contribute something. Yet from almost the first day arriving in this country, my ability to feel strong emotions seemed to drain from me and my impressive self-regenerating tears went on sabbatical – forcing the realization of owning lazy tear ducts. They didn’t want to have to work overtime and preferred sitting comfortably numb.
Despite the fact that most days, especially as my time here quickly fades away, I appreciate and love Cameroon more and
more - the beautiful aspects of its people, its culture, its food, its majestic
landscapes, it doesn't cover up the surrounding and all too-normal sadness
which is so annoyingly present. I walk
out of my house and a group of Muslim men, sitting together on a mat, some with
hands extended towards the heavens, pray for the small neighborhood girl who
has died of Typhoid. They will do this
for days. I go out on a run and see the
same – this time, maybe someone’s mother.
I take a ride on a bus and pass yet another terrible car accident. Death is a constant. I shoo away the small begging boys with their
metal bowls from morning to night. I say
“non merci” to the children forced to sell boiled eggs or tissues and cigarettes
into the wee hours of the morning. I avoid
eye contact and walk around the ancient lady who lies next to her alms
bowl. I watch my neighborhood kids in their dirty clothes and ashy skin hanging out on our street, doing nothing, unable to afford school, and the
women who sit with them frying their beignets – realizing how rarely they are even
allowed to leave the quartier. It is
five o’clock in the afternoon and my friend reveals she hasn’t eaten today so
doesn’t have the energy to go for a walk. I wouldn't have enough tears even if I wanted to cry, and what would they help anyway? Cameroon with its never-ending bouts of sickness, corruption, and frustrations
bestows on her people something of a seemingly impregnable challenge, and leaving
me feeling that I’m only playing the silly role of eye-witness and pondering the
“why” question-- not towards the identifiable sources of the sadness but the prolongation of
it.
No answers. I have none, but below are just some more disjointed, tiny incomprehensive thoughts on how things like sorcery play both parts of problem and solution helping to contribute to some of Cameroon's nagging ailments...
No answers. I have none, but below are just some more disjointed, tiny incomprehensive thoughts on how things like sorcery play both parts of problem and solution helping to contribute to some of Cameroon's nagging ailments...
It's common knowledge that God has a reason for everything -- even if it remains a mystery to us lowly humans. That's not a foreign explanation to the American ear, but belief in it
or not, Americans usually tend to dig a little deeper for at least a secondary
explanation, hoping and realizing we have some control over our fates. A young American man for no clear purpose
destroys the lives of 27 people in a matter of minutes. Devastating, and blame must be placed
somewhere – mental health, gun control laws, a violent culture, parenting? Something or someone must be held
accountable. Repetition is unacceptable, and our ways must change.
Similar initial reactions occur here in Cameroon – the unexplained is explained. Yet to its disadvantage, answers are too often left in the hands of God, or another mystic power – and with that, personal and communal responsibilities are washed away. The question is answered with itself -- it's a mystery. Reality can be too ugly and when maybe, correctly, personal actions seem to do too little to change it, what's the point in keeping it around? My neighbor told me his brother died of “the malaria” which to my surprise wasn’t the doing of mosquitoes but rather was caused by some jealous girl who had cursed him. Possibly a truer tale would be something more aligned with his family not wanting to admit that they couldn’t afford the bills or being too proud to beg neighbors and family for money, keeping him from the hospital until it was too late. The old witch lady in the adjoining neighborhood “took” a girl’s heart and the young girl almost died until the old woman was physically beaten and forced to “give” her heart back. (I would be warned from walking past a particular home in order to avoid being cursed myself.) I realize believing in the supernatural is super natural but when it is used as an excuse, a rationalization, for our own mistakes, especially in preventable cases, it becomes detrimental.
Sorcery – with both its worthy and wicked ways – is deeply engrained in Cameroon. It’s even easy to come across a well-educated teacher or colleague that believes in its powers to a certain extent. One can be a devout Catholic or Muslim and still hold their animistic or traditional beliefs. They’re not completely separate. (If you’re already believing in one un-earthly power, why not another? I get that.) Although it may often seem that teenage girls are possessed by evil spirits, a modern medical doctor at the local clinic could tell us that the girl who collapsed actually wasn’t possessed at all and the root of her schoolyard seizure was health related and treatable. But when the cost of medical bills keeps the majority of Cameroonians out of the hospitals for the majority of curable ailments, a Cameroonian may never hear or accept another explanation. Hospitals are for the dying. (Then again, so is the home so that works too.) And why would a corrupt, selfish government want to take any blame for its lacking healthcare system? It seems sorcery is the better answer for everyone.
Similar initial reactions occur here in Cameroon – the unexplained is explained. Yet to its disadvantage, answers are too often left in the hands of God, or another mystic power – and with that, personal and communal responsibilities are washed away. The question is answered with itself -- it's a mystery. Reality can be too ugly and when maybe, correctly, personal actions seem to do too little to change it, what's the point in keeping it around? My neighbor told me his brother died of “the malaria” which to my surprise wasn’t the doing of mosquitoes but rather was caused by some jealous girl who had cursed him. Possibly a truer tale would be something more aligned with his family not wanting to admit that they couldn’t afford the bills or being too proud to beg neighbors and family for money, keeping him from the hospital until it was too late. The old witch lady in the adjoining neighborhood “took” a girl’s heart and the young girl almost died until the old woman was physically beaten and forced to “give” her heart back. (I would be warned from walking past a particular home in order to avoid being cursed myself.) I realize believing in the supernatural is super natural but when it is used as an excuse, a rationalization, for our own mistakes, especially in preventable cases, it becomes detrimental.
Sorcery – with both its worthy and wicked ways – is deeply engrained in Cameroon. It’s even easy to come across a well-educated teacher or colleague that believes in its powers to a certain extent. One can be a devout Catholic or Muslim and still hold their animistic or traditional beliefs. They’re not completely separate. (If you’re already believing in one un-earthly power, why not another? I get that.) Although it may often seem that teenage girls are possessed by evil spirits, a modern medical doctor at the local clinic could tell us that the girl who collapsed actually wasn’t possessed at all and the root of her schoolyard seizure was health related and treatable. But when the cost of medical bills keeps the majority of Cameroonians out of the hospitals for the majority of curable ailments, a Cameroonian may never hear or accept another explanation. Hospitals are for the dying. (Then again, so is the home so that works too.) And why would a corrupt, selfish government want to take any blame for its lacking healthcare system? It seems sorcery is the better answer for everyone.
Cameroonians are occasionally known not to lend a penny (well, a CFA) to a family member or a friend to go to the hospital for some very treatable but deadly illness, but then will no doubt come bearing gifts to that person’s funeral. That really can hit a nerve, at least for a Peace Corps Volunteer. But maybe when this life can be such a struggle, why not want to help celebrate that person’s seemingly recent promotion? To be more positive though, I do think time and continual education will help. As more clinics, more hospitals, better schools and resource centers open, as more opportunities become available, things will change – and that will take some of the sting, some of the unnecessary and avoidable struggle, out of the daily living, and then maybe Cameroonians will see the good and benefits of investing more money into their living rather than in honoring loved ones in death.
Insha’Allah.
*PCVs are impressively resourceful when it comes to keeping each other up-to-date with freshly released eye-craving media.
International Youth Day 2013, Maroua, Extreme-North
Baka children (little Pygmies) in Lomie, East Region
(maybe 2 or 3 African countries actually have a McDonald's)
