Candice and me
The night before the holiday, I went to the home of the sub-prefect and his wife, who happens to teach French at the high school, to help them prepare a meal for our colleagues. Maybe they didn’t think I was capable of anything more complicated, or perhaps there was nothing else to do, but I ended up sitting in their backyard and peeling garlic for over an hour, so by the time I left for home, my fingers were sore and reeked of garlic.
For the weekend leading up to Teachers’ Day, Nyambaka was without electricity, and without various forms of electronic entertainment, it suddenly became a lot easier for me to go to bed at a reasonable hour, so I planned to return to the sub-prefect’s house early in the morning to finish preparations.
What I hadn’t taken into account was that while the rainy season is tapering off in October, its last vestiges can be particularly powerful. So when I woke up (the first time) at 7 AM, it was raining. I put my kitchen sink (a plastic bucket) outside to collect water, and promptly went back to sleep.
Two hours later, after a cup of coffee and a scrambled egg sandwich, I started thinking about leaving the house. My house is within view of the sub-prefecture, so I knew I would hear if the festivities started. By 10 AM, I’d had another cup of coffee and dressed in my finery, so I was ready to face the world. Candice (a recently arrived volunteer in a nearby village), the proviseur (principal) of my high school, and a few others were seated in front of the sub-prefecture, and the rest of the teachers were gathered around the flagpole. At approximately 10:30, the flag was raised, the national anthem sung, and the agenda read aloud, which proclaimed that the celebration was to begin at 8:30 AM. The scourge of Cameroonian time strikes again.
Speeches were read by a local minister and Mr. Simion, a teacher at the high school who acts as our unofficial librarian. The sub-prefect then spoke at length, chastising teachers for allowing absenteeism in schools and not planning adequately for the holiday. He also warned us to be vigilant in our classrooms so that our students don’t become members of Boko Haram. (While the Adamawa region has largely escaped the influence of the now infamous organization, fear and rumors still abound, and I suspect that the small turnout at the celebration this year was partially due to anxiety that now crops up whenever there is a large group in public.)
Then there was the “défilé” (parade), which consisted of all of the teachers in attendance walking in a circle between the sub-prefecture and the market. The whole thing took about 15 minutes and there was virtually no fanfare, but I assure you, we were majestic.
And that was the end of the official festivities. The teachers from Nyambaka retired to the sub-prefect’s house for lunch, which was, as always, delicious, thanks in no small part to my superb garlic peeling abilities.
It wasn’t until after the two prayers (one Christian, one Muslim) and the meal that Candice remarked that none of her colleagues had made it to the house, and upon exiting, we found them at the bar next door. And so, 14 months after arriving in Nyambaka, I set foot for the first time in one of the village’s two bars. For the record, I had a soda.
After saying goodbye to Candice and her fellow teachers at about 4 in the afternoon, I walked toward the market, hoping to buy eggs before going home to rest. While waiting in line, a middle-aged man tried to convince me that since it was Teachers’ Day, and I was I teacher, I should give him a gift; namely, money. “My brother,” I said to him, “Today is my holiday, so where is your gift to me?” He laughed, shook my hand, and walked away. I bought my eggs and tomatoes and turned homeward, but I was stopped by Ismael, a primary school teacher that I met at the Women’s Day dinner at the mayor’s office. He insisted that one of the delegates wanted to buy me a drink and, knowing Cameroonian protocol, I wasn’t going to let my fatigue overrule politeness.
And so, in one day, I visited both of Nyambaka’s bars for the first time. At least, the second establishment is called a bar, perhaps because “a shed and some plastic chairs laid out under a mango tree” isn’t quite succinct enough. There were maybe ten people—mostly men, and mostly men of prominent position—drinking, and it took a while to persuade them to let me drink a Vimto (a kind of berry soda that tastes sort of like a diabetic coma) instead of a beer.
A quick note here: Each volunteer chooses how they “integrate” into their community, and we each prioritize certain behaviors. For example, when I’m in Nyambaka, I cover my knees and shoulders whenever I leave my house, in an effort to integrate. Certain other things I wasn’t willing to give up, like having short hair. Not drinking is simply one of the behaviors that I’ve adopted while living in a place where most people (and most of my friends) are Muslim. Which isn’t to suggest that all Muslims don’t drink, but that’s another discussion entirely. The point is, I’m not a teetotaler; I just know how a single woman drinking alcohol is perceived here (hint: not well), so I don’t partake.
After finishing my giant bottle of “juice” (0.65 liters) and witnessing a drunken French/Fulfulde argument that very nearly ended in blows, I pleaded a prior engagement (a student was coming over for help with homework) and excused myself from the group, who intended to carry on drinking throughout the night.
Ismael insisted on escorting me home, and informed me not far from my house that I am the “princess of Nyambaka” because everyone knows me.
“Of course everyone knows me, “ I replied. “I’m the only nassara [white woman] here.”
He insisted that it had nothing to do with my appearance, but with the quality of my actions; that I had willingly left my life in America to teach the children of this village. I suspect that his flattery was at least partially motivated by liquid courage, but I’ll take it. After all, it is my holiday.
