Mango Season

my house and mango trees

All of the expats in a given area have a way of finding each other here. At the risk of stating the obvious, it’s easier to pick out someone who probably wasn’t born in Cameroon. This means that in addition to my volunteer friends, I’ve also become acquaintances with scholars, entrepreneurs, and missionaries. And so, an American agnostic became friends with a German Christian missionary.

Jessica and the other missionaries in her group work as primary school teachers in a small village just outside of Ngaoundéré, the regional capital of the Adamawa. They live in sort of dormitory near the school, with a common room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom with a few bunk beds. I don’t speak any German, but Jessica speaks fluent English, and when I saw a handwritten sign in German in her dormitory, I asked her to translate.

“It says, ‘Mango season starts in March.’”

We laughed. She knew no French when she arrived in Cameroon, but at least she knew when mango season was.

At least, in theory. The chill of January and February led into a hot, dusty March. Everything was covered in a fine orange dust, but there was still no sign of rain, and no sign of mangoes. It’s normal, people told me. We had an exceptional crop last year, so there won’t be very many this year. Having arrived at post just after the end of last year’s mango season, I was slightly bitter.

Then, slowly, they began to appear. During the preparations for Women’s Day in early March I would see the occasional youth selling bundles of mangoes for exorbitant prices, up to 100 francs (about 20 cents) for a single fruit. Not surprisingly, there weren’t many buyers; for that amount of money, you could buy an entire baguette.

As the weeks passed, I looked mournfully out my front door at the two ancient mango trees in my yard. Nothing.

Finally, one day while walking home from the market, I looked up at the mango trees, and it seemed like the yellow fruits were glowing in the light of the sunset. There weren’t many, and they weren’t yet bright red and ripe, but finally, there was the promise of mangoes.

Since then, Nyambaka has been inundated with large juicy mangoes, and as a result, prices have plummeted. (The best price I’ve paid thus far was 50 francs, or about ten cents, for half a dozen of them.) Of course, the locals mocked me for paying for them at all: Why not just climb a tree and get them yourself? I told myself that I wanted to help the children make a little money, but mostly I wanted to spare myself the embarrassment of falling from a tree with my skirt up over my head.


Now that the season is in full swing, the mango trees just outside my yard are beginning to bear fruit at a level that I can actually reach. The first time I picked one myself, I ran home, rinsed it off, peeled off the thick green-yellow-red skin, and greedily gobbled it up, even sucking on the pit to get every last drop of juice. At the end of it, I looked like one of the small children I sometimes see eating mangoes in village: face covered in juice, hands sticky stained somewhat orange, pieces of fruit debris on their clothes. I was an absolute mess, but a satisfied mess.

"At last, my mangoes have come along...."

Pâques / Easter

It’s Saturday afternoon. Renee and I are the only two people in the case (the regional Peace Corps office/house). Everyone else has either gone back to their respective villages or has already started drinking. We, productive volunteers that we are, are checking Facebook.

Renee gets up to leave—her village is only a 15-minute motorcycle ride away. “I’m going to church in the Norwegian quarter tomorrow morning,” she says. “Do you want to come?”

The word rings in my mind for a moment: Norwegian.

“Sure,” I say. “Come over at nine, I’ll have coffee ready by then.”

Renee walks out, and I realize how much I’ve changed since coming to Cameroon. Passing up the opportunity to sleep in until noon? Voluntarily going to church? It’s like I’m becoming a grown-up or something.

I should explain my enthusiasm for the Norwegian quarter. It got its name in the 1980s when a number of Norwegian missionaries and aid workers came to the area, and it’s now known to house the best hospital in the city and some beautiful churches. I’d never been to the neighborhood, but I was aware of its existence before I ever came to the Adamawa, thanks to a text from my half-Norwegian mother I received during training: “There’s a neighborhood in Ngaoundere called Norvege!”

And so, after eight months of living within two hours of the famed quarter, I was finally going to see it for myself… and go to a Lutheran Easter service.

I had expected places Norwegian quarter to be like, well, Norway, but upon arriving at church I am quickly cured of this disillusion. Rows of wooden benches sit in the open courtyard of a small health center, bunched together to allow the maximum number of service-goers a seat away from the sun. In front, two preachers alternate giving their message, one in French, the other in Fulfulde. Two choirs are to their right, one for each language. Everyone in attendance is in their Easter finery, even a baby girl whose hair was braided with glittery yarn.

Baptisms and confirmations are performed. I give Renee—who studied Spanish before coming to Cameroon—a play-by-play of the service. Bible verses are read in two languages, and both choirs raise their voices to the heavens in turn. Having only started learning Fulfulde last summer, I understand only the simplest lyrics, but I discover that they have kept the Arabic word for God, Allah.

By about 10:30, it’s no longer possible to take refuge from the sun, and Renee suggests that we visit another church nearby. Still scarred by the last bilingual church service I attended, which lasted four hours, I hastily agree. “While everyone else is bar-crawling,” she says gleefully, “we’re church-crawling!”

This is what I had expected: A large modern building with balconies and stained glass windows. Something you might see in America. The only real difference is the men in boubous (long traditional tunics). We take our places on a pew in the back. More confirmations, more songs, this time entirely in French. Once more, babies are brought forward, parents glowing with pride, and are baptized.

In the afternoon, it rains. Soon the rainy season will arrive. Crops will be sown, the landscape will turn from burnt orange to vibrant green, and the rebirth will begin.