This last week I’ve taken to my bed more than usual, the result of being exhausted after my Cameroon experience.
When I wasn’t actually sleeping, (which I’ve done a lot of), I’ve been reflecting on the way my blog has been dominated by this ancestral search in the past few months.
Blogging has become a significant part of my writing. I’ve been reminding myself that I originally began the blog to try and trace whether my spiritual development would have any discernible effect on my creative writing.
At the moment I seem to be doing less and less creative writing. I’m trying to regain the drive and passion for the purely creative.
I’ve never seen myself as a journalist, yet I have spent many hours and many thousands of words journaling, both publicly and privately.
If there are any creative writers who also blog I’d be interested to know how you manage the split.
I head out to Barbados in a few week’s time. It’s the place that inspirited my first novel Dare to Love. I’m hoping that I will reconnect with that purely creative energy when I’m there.
Just before I left Cameroon someone asked me what I’ll miss. As I thought about my answer it seemed that most of the things I’ll miss have a counterbalancing thing that I won’t miss.
1. Cleanliness
Garbage waiting for the council to collect
I won’t miss open garbage. The way rubbish is dropped on the streets, although it does form a rather interesting mosaic when mixed into to the red mud.
Every first Thursday of the month is ‘Clean-up’ day. I was happy when I heard that it was a day for making the environment more beautiful. But sadly it seemed to only apply to people’s cars, frontages and homes. The communal areas remained neglected.
Garbage waiting to be trodden into the red earth
I won’t miss open urination by men – however much rain there is. Neither will I miss outside toilets. Although I’m no stranger to doing my business outside (years of hiking in Britain) I prefer not to be exposed to the elements in the middle of the night when I need to go. It’s one of the reasons camping has never appealed to me.
I will miss the intense cleanliness of the interior of people’s houses. It seems as if there’s one rule for the inside and another for the outside.
2. Sharing
A school girl offers me some of her lunch
I will miss the ethos and practice of sharing. I witnessed children who barely had enough for themselves sharing with those who had nothing. There’s a line in a Bob Dylan song that says ‘people who suffer together are more connected than those who are most content.’ It was certainly in evidence in Kumbo and in Mbosha. I can’t speak for the rest of Cameroon.
I was always offered food
Whenever I visited a home I was offered food. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if the family had enough for themselves so I would only take a small amount. ‘Add more,’ they’d say. I was warmed by their generosity and hospitality.
3. Education
The long road to school
I will miss the thirst for education and the extent to which people will go to secure a good education for their children. Education is not compulsory so school fees are applicable to all children. Many families make great sacrifices to enable their children to go to school. Some children walk for up to two hours to get to school in the mornings, and repeat the journey again at the end of school.
I will miss the way the children were responsible for maintaining the cleanliness of their school and did it willingly. There was a rota for cleaning each class at the end of the day, and for sweeping the school yard.
I will miss the enthusiasm with which the children at the school help with the building work.
Educating girls
I will not miss those who are still arguing for girls to be married as soon as possible which curtails their education as early as ten years. I applaud the young women in my sixth form group who made impassioned presentation for the right of girls to be educated in the same way as boys are.
4. Connection to the earth
Cooking food fresh every day
I will miss the connection to the earth that people have. This is maintained in several ways.
Walking barefooted maintains a constant connection with the red earth and its constant nourishment.
Growing food locally and eating it fresh. Lack of fridges means that food is cooked and eaten fresh each day. More of the life giving energy is made available to the body. Meat is also freshly killed. There are no microwaves to annihilate all nutrients from food.
Living with the rhythms of the days and the seasons. Being woken by the cock’s crow.
I will not miss the 5 a.m. Muslim call to prayer every day of the week, or the fact my neighbours began their day at 6.a.m. with dance music.
5. Trust
I will miss the trust people have in each other to do the right thing. This is because they trust in a higher power, an all seeing power who will right all wrongs. I first experienced this the day after I arrived. It was my birthday and I went to Squares for a meal. We bought the food from a street vendor who brought it to us inside a bar. She was not affiliated to the bar and no one came to collect money for the meal. When I enquired of my colleagues as to how to pay they informed that we pay on the way out.
‘But we could just walk away without paying!’ I exclaimed.
‘I guess we could, but nobody here does,’ she replied, ‘it’s a trust thing.’
6. Tolerance
Muslim mosque
I will miss the way Muslim, Christians and traditional spiritual practices co-exist in harmony.
Traditional juju man
Inside Kumbo Catholic cathedral
7. Family
Father and son
I will miss the sense of family. People here know who they are. They are firmly grounded in family and have a strong responsibility to their families. A family member is an extension of oneself. There would be no question of one member having a lot and someone else in the family going without.
A young man of 25 years that I got close to became the head of the house aged 15 when his father died. For the last ten years he’s seen it as his responsibility to ensure his mother and younger siblings are taken care of.
A welcome embrace
When I mentioned this to one of the teachers at the school as an exceptional case, she shrugged and said ‘that’s not unusual here.’
That sense of family is one of the things that systematic attempts were made to eradicated out of the Africans who were taken as slaves to America and the Caribbean. It was successful in part; especially the part where the men do not have the same sense of commitment to their children. Note I say only in part because some men are still very committed to raising their children as a family unit.
I will not miss the custom of girls being married at a very early age (I met two mothers who had their first child aged 12, and by age 28 had five children). There did not seem to be any religious leanings toward this practice as one was Muslim and one Christian.
Most of all I will miss the way they accepted me as one of them. Gave me a new name and treated me as a long lost relative.
As I write this I’m reflecting on the fact that this time last week I was still sitting on a coach which was by then 3 hours late getting from Bamenda to Douala.
MAC cafe and bar Birmingham UK
I’m writing in the MAC (Midland’s Arts Centre) Cafe, one of my favourite places in Birmingham. I’m not the only one using this place as a writing haven, there are at least five other people with laptops and coffee.
Last night, at their request, I did a presentation of my experiences to my ACIM (A Course in Miracles) study group. An hour was nowhere near long enough to share more than the highlights. Even so it was enough for those who had not followed the blog to get the general gist of the organisation, their approach, my brief spell with them and what they have left me with.
I was able to share some of the videos with them, including the one of Fred (the director of SEREP) thanking them for their donation to the school building project. They were visibly moved and spontaneously applauded.
‘Your words drew us in,’ one member said, ‘but seeing the video of the children singing made them real for us.’
I’ve still to upload the video of which he speaks, but one thing at a time.
I had no idea how exhausted I was. I’m just now coming back to my normal levels of energy so it may be a few days still before I get the videos uploaded.
Sometimes I’ve lain on my back looking up at the ceiling re-running conversations in my head. One that stands out boldly and gets a few replays is the feedback session with Fred on my last day at the project. Particularly my feedback on the school.
There were three practices which I’d been very uncomfortable with from the start. These were;
Use of the cane.
The practice of calling children ‘criminals’ when they had committed a misdemeanour and also being ‘punished’ for their ‘crimes’.
Being called ‘bad’ when they broke school rules.
Being aware of possible psychological damage these practices can have on developing minds I endeavoured to operate differently in my teaching methods as a means of demonstrating a different approach.
I therefore never called a child ‘bad’ or ‘criminal’ and I never threatened the use of the cane or any other form of corporal punishment. Instead I appealed to the children’s better nature, asked them to put themselves in the place of the other person if the misdemeanour was related to another person. If it was a refusal to participate in an activity or to carry out a request I would find out why and try to work towards a solution that was acceptable to all.
Of course it took longer to gain compliance this way. My approach was tested by some of the more challenging children, but eventually they realised that I was not going to revert to corporal punishment. They recognised that I was genuinely interested in them and their reasons for non-compliance, and that I care about them.
What I got in return was disciplined lesson which came from diligence to the task in hand rather than from threat of retribution.
I’m in no way suggesting that the current staff group do not care about the children – I believe they care very deeply, and I believe they use the methods they do to instil the discipline they know the children need in order to succeed. Indeed the school’s motto is ‘No success without discipline.’ The teachers were simply using the methods that were used with them.
I shared my concerns with Fred at that last meeting, because not only had he observed my methods, but had sent others to my classes to watch me teach.
I was expecting strong resistance to my suggestions that the use of the cane should cease, and at least some resistance to the use of ‘bad’ and ‘criminal’ to describe children.
I was astonished by Fred’s willingness to agree to my requests once he understood the potential damage. As he is the main user of the cane (teachers refer misbehaving children to him) he was willing from that day to begin to look for alternatives to caning.
He would also be ceasing the use of ‘bad’ and ‘criminal’ and would be encouraging his staff to do the same. Although he anticipated some resistance there he was prepared to give it a go.
I suggested that maybe when I came next year that I could run a workshop for his staff on the issues I’d just discussed with him.
He reflected a moment.
‘The problem is that it isn’t just our school that uses these words about children, or that uses physical punishment. Calling children criminals is rife in the society, and also in other schools. Would you consider including other teachers from other schools in such a workshop?’
My mouth fell open. This was beyond my wildest expectations, and had I not been leaving the next day I would have begun the planning straight away.
I think it’s brilliant that Fred will be trying something different in his school. Hopefully by the time I return to run such a workshop he will have the evidence that this approach can work in African schools. When we teach from a point of love rather than from a point of fear anything is possible.
This is the same message I’m preparing to take with me to Barbados next month. Hopefully I’ll have the course for the polytechnic on effective parenting completed by then.
The day began at 4.50 a.m. because Emmanuel (my staff escort) and the taxi were coming to pick me up at 5.30.
Emmanuel – my staff escort
Although I’d prepared my clothes and pretty much packed everything before I went to bed it was still a struggle to find everything by torchlight, as very heavy rain in the night had caused a power cut. I just about managed it, but decided to do my make-up later as I’d need three hands to accomplish that feat by touch. Next time I’m going to bring one of those torches that also acts as a lantern – like the one Charlott (one of the German volunteers) had.
Emmanuel was on time but the taxi was about 15 minutes late. Chima had woken up to see me off and helped to carry my bags out to the taxi. There were already five people in the taxi, two in the back and three in the front (including the driver).
He had to make space in the boot for my two large suitcases which meant moving a few other bags around. Also the live chicken which one of the passengers was carrying to Bamenda. Emmanuel and I squeezed in beside the man and woman in the back and so the tight fit began for the three hour journey to Bamenda.
About an hour into the journey I became aware of an intense headache and a very nauseous feeling in my stomach. Emmanuel later said that he too had the same symptoms, and blamed it on the chicken which was continually using the back of the car as a toilet.
It was lovely to be leaving Kumbo by daylight, and I even remembered some of the villages from my journey into Kumbo just four weeks ago. Then I was so fatigued I could barely take it all in. Now I was fresh. Squashed but fresh.
Piling the mini bus high at Bamenda coach station
The pot-holes didn’t seem as intense or as frequent – or maybe I’d become acclimatised to them after a month. The trip to Bamenda was therefore fairly uneventful and it wasn’t until we all got out at the coach station that I realised that the leg that had been most tightly squeezed next to the woman on my right was covered in sweat from my thigh to my knee.
I can’t explain the feeling of revulsion as I realised that I’d have to keep my jeans on for the whole day, at least another 25 hours. But I’m pretty quick at making the best of a bad situation, and even the 90 minutes delay of the coach leaving didn’t faze me too much.
I did, however, feel a lot of sympathy for Emmanuel who was still feeling nauseous. He was even persuaded to buy some strange looking powder from a vendor who told him it was good for stomach aches. He also told me it was good for reproduction and offered some to me. I assured him that my reproducing days were well and truly behind me, and he moved on muttering something that I couldn’t quite understand.
Although Emmanuel tried to persuade himself that the powder was working I could see that it clearly wasn’t, and by the time the coach was ready to leave he was desperate to sit next to the window. Unfortunately the window didn’t open by our seat so he swapped with someone behind us.
This is how I came to be sitting next to the ancient gentleman who looked and smelled like he’d not quite managed to make it to the toilet in time. He tried to talk to me in a language no one around me could understand, and I have to confess to reverting to a technique of not engaging in conversation. I got my headphones out, plugged them into my phone and began listening to music. It was the first time I’d done this since arriving in Cameroon.
By the time the smell really began to bother me it was about 12.30, and as it turned out there was still another eight hours to go. The journey which should have taken 6 hours took 9 hours. Not only that, but when it rained the water came in just by where I was sitting. I had to rescue my bag from the floor in front of me. I moved it to my lap as it contained my laptop, but it wasn’t safe even there.
Fortunately I had my raincoat in the bag. I whipped it out quickly and it was this which protected my bag and its precious contents.
There were many stops to allow food vendors onto the coach, and each time that this happened the floor became filled with more and more garbage. The man next to me was one of the main culprits.
After about five and a half hours the bus broke down. It needed a wheel change. I used this opportunity to try and find a toilet as there had been no toilet stops on the way. There were no toilets and I didn’t feel like joining the men who seemed happy to urinate into the canal opposite the market place – in full public view.
By the time we set off again I was beginning to get stomach cramps and realised that I would soon be smelling like the man next to me if I didn’t get to a toilet soon.
I focused all my thoughts on finding a toilet asap. Each time the coach bounced over yet another pot-hole that sent most of the passengers at the back bouncing up and down like a fairground ride, my stomach cramped and I felt my sphincter muscles groan under the strain.
I was on the verge of going to demand that the driver stopped when he pulled into the side of the road to let some passengers get off. I ran to the front of the coach, got off and told him I needed to use a toilet.
He looked around and said there were no toilets and I could not use the side of the road as it was in a built up area. I was panic stricken. I looked around, willing at this point to drop my trousers and do it in front of the whole bus if necessary.
It a then I saw the garage across the road with a sign that said ‘Toilets’. Not even stopping to ask the driver how long we were stopping for I headed in the direction of the sign.
‘Madam!’ I heard a voice call.
I looked up. It was one of the garage workers.
‘Damn,’ I thought, I haven’t brought any money to pay for the toilet.
He came running over to me and held out his hand.
‘You’ll need this,’ he said handing me a key.
I smiled my gratitude and carried on my flight in the direction of the sign. I opened the door on what was a ceramic plate on the floor with a hole at one end. It was luxury compared to the alternative I’d been contemplating, and I was mightily relieved.
Only afterward did I notice that the water over the sink did not work and there was no way of flushing the toilet.
There was a knock on the door, which in my haste I had not locked.
‘Coming!’ I almost screamed, only to find the same member of staff standing there with a bucket of water. He smiled at me and left. After flushing and washing my hands I returned the key to him. He did not ask me for any money.
It happens like this in Cameroon sometimes. In the middle of a bad situation someone’s kind response changes everything.
Faye and JC
I got back onto the coach and sat through another three hours of the bumpy ride before arriving in Douala. It was too late to meet with Fay and JC at their hotel as planned. They were also travelling back the same night. Our flights were within an hour of each other. The plan had been to meet up and share a meal together and then travel to the airport in the same taxi.
As it was, I just made it to the airport in time to have a brief discussion with them before needing to check in. Stepping into the airport provided the first feeling of order for the day. Stepping onto the aircraft was going into another world. A world without live chickens, or garbage on the floor, or smelly people sitting next to me.
Emmanuel Faye Emmanuel and JC
A world in which a complaint about the seating would be taken seriously, unlike on the coach when a woman complained about the way the seats wobbled when we went over a bump (and there were many bumps). The conductor sat in the seat while the coach was stationary and told her there was nothing wrong with it. A world where the rain wouldn’t come in and threaten to ruin your valuables.
Emmanuel Faye Me and JC
I finally relaxed, and apart from a brief conversation with my fellow travelers I slept most of the way. The connections at Charles de Gaulle were smooth and effortless, as was the taxi ride home.
Twenty-eight and a half hours from door to door. Two continents – worlds apart. I need to rest and reflect on what I can take from each for my own growth and development.
Although I slept for 13 hours yesterday, I still need more sleep. Maybe as much as 28 hours.
I just about managed to hold back the tears as I sat through another set of goodbyes. This time it was the director, the staff in the office, members of the school governing body, other associates of the organisation and our newest volunteer who arrived last night. Unfortunately all the other volunteers were busy as the director had to move the presentation from 7 p.m. to 4 p.m.
I was genuinely touched by their gratitude for what I’d managed to achieve with the projects, and especially the school.
The director prayed for my safe return home before presenting me with gifts from the Parent Teacher’s Association and an attestation certificate outlining my areas of responsibility and my approach to my volunteering.
This was followed by speeches of thanks from a member of the governing body, the associate and members of staff.
Food magically materialised in two large thermos flasks containing the local dishes of corn fufu, huckleberry and beef. Everyone toasted my safe return and said they looked forward to seeing me next year.
I felt like a daughter leaving her family. But with the wonders of technology I will be in touch with them until my return. My taxi arrives to pick me up at 5.30 a.m. tomorrow for the marathon journey home.
Although today is a bank holiday the children were asked to come in to school to say goodbye to me. I was amazed that virtually all the children were there. They sat on the new benches that have been made as a result of recent donations and listened as the director gave a speech about my coming and what its meant to the school.
He then asked them to sing and for each student who felt so moved to say something about how they had experienced my visit.
The singing raised the energy in the room to such an extent that I was moved to tears. And even more so as both senior and junior students stood and spoke of the difference my being here has made to them personally and to the school generally.
When it came to my turn to make a response I heard myself saying that I had come here to find my family, and having done so and being so warmly welcomed that I would be coming back every year to see how they’re getting on.
Where did that come from! I hadn’t even thought it before it came out of my mouth!! So now I’m committed to coming back every year. It’s probably not such a bad idea as I’ve realised that there’s much I can do here to help with capacity building both on an individual and community level.
Many of the students came to hug me before they left, and to wish me God’s guidance on my way home and again when I come to visit next time.
One offered me a gift of food. A cornmeal dish cooked in banana leaf. As I tasted it I realised that it is the same as something we have in Jamaica.
‘Duckuno!’ I exclaimed, ‘We have this in Jamaica.’
A little crowd gathered as I munched through what they call……. and marvelled at how well preserved the cooking process had been maintained over hundreds of years.
Yes, I’ll be back next year; and probably for some years to come. It would be good to see the Form 1 become Form 6.
I’ve had the volunteer house to myself since from Friday about 2.30 p.m. Well, almost to myself. There’s me, the resident mouse that traverses frequently between the lounge and the kitchen, and the mosquito in my room.
The two German girls and one of the English men have gone to a small town just outside Bamenda for the weekend. They left about 2.30 p.m. Friday.
The other two English volunteers who arrived last week have gone to Douala to see the disability project there before leaving on Tuesday. I will meet them again at the airport as our flights are within an hour of each other, but for now I have the house more or less to myself.
After a day of rest on Friday when I spent most of the time writing I had a pretty packed day yesterday.
It began with washing my clothes by hand before going to the office to help Emmanuelle the IT specialist with a website issue. Yes. Me. Helping with websites. There’s nothing like being in a place where the little you know is so much more that what the others know.
New classroom being used even before the plaster’s dry
I’ve shown him the power of WordPress for communicating with the world and he instantly saw the potential for the organisation of a free website.
It was followed by a quick visit to the school to check on the progress as I haven’t been down there since Wednesday. There was a 6th form Saturday class in progress in one of the newer classrooms, and the plasterer was busy at work.
Bana with well bartered cock
I dashed back to get changed into my newly acquired African gown for a visit to the palace. The entry fee is one chicken and 5 gallons of palm wine, plus a 1000 franks tip for each of the guides.
I watched as my friend Bana bartered hard for a reasonably priced chicken, but he accepted the standard fee for the palm wine.
When we got to the palace gates there was no one there, but a quick call brought a tall man in a black leather coat strolling slowly toward us.
He accepted our chicken and wine and was helped by another guide to take them into the palace. We had to wait in a reception area as women are not allowed in certain parts of the palace.
Five gallons of palm wine
While we waited Bana explained that the Fon (king) of the palace has over 80 wives who live in many of the house around the vast compound, although most of its vastness was not visible from where we were standing.
The two men re-emerged from the door carrying a pitcher and two bowls. As he approached I realised that the bowls were made from calabash.
We were taken into a reception room which contained a pool table and out of which a small boy was chased.
The guides beckoned to us to sit on a long bench. I sat and crossed my legs. Bana immediately reprimanded me for doing so. ‘You don’t cross your legs in here,’ he said.
Palm wine from calabash
The two guides offered us the bowls and poured palm wine into each. I asked for only a small amount as I’ve not yet acquired the taste for it.
I agreed to have a drop more and reached for the pitcher with my left hand. Again another reprimand. ‘You do not use your left hand to pour,’ Bana said.
‘Why?’ I asked confused.
‘It’s custom,’ he said.
I got a sense that he was a little embarrassed by my lack of etiquette and I had to explain to the guides that if I was doing something wrong it was because of ignorance not insolence. I told them that the children I work with had named me Bonkiyung which means ‘a fool who has to learn,’ It’s a name I readily accepted as there is still much for me to learn.
As it turned out one of the guides said his name was also Bonkiyung.
‘You could be my brother I exclaimed,’ which broke the ice. Bana went on to explain the circumstances of my visit, i.e a return to my ancestral home. The guides were very interested and were disappointed that the Fon was not at home to greet me. They said that when I come next time to arrange in advance an audience with the Fon who they are sure will be very interested in meeting me.
The throne room
They then went on to show us another quarter of the palace, namely the throne room where the Fon holds court (literally, he presides over disputes).
It was quite a short visit, given the entrance fee, but the guides were very pleasant and very grateful for their gratuity.
‘Why does the Fon have over 80 wives?’ I asked Bana as we left.
‘Because he’s quite an old man now. Some of his wives are actually quite old now, but he can’t put them out so they all live in the palace with him,’ he answered. There wasn’t enough English between us for me to pursue the conceptual as opposed to the practical issue of 80 wives.
I was also unclear about what he called ‘inculturation’ which means that Christian men can have more than one wife which alleviates the need for them to be sent away from the village if they are caught committing adultery.
Drinking corn beer
He showed me some of the slum areas behind the main entertainment area of Squares where people drink corn beer in many small and dingy parlours. He asked if I wanted to try the corn beer.
It’s a thick beverage made from fermented corn and comes in three strengths depending on the length of fermentation. I went for the medium strength and joined the group of men already working their way through several jugs.
A litre of corn beer is 100 francs, compared to 600-600 franks for 750 ml of beer. It’s the equivalent of cheap strong cider, but I have to confess to liking it better than palm wine.
Again I was reprimanded for trying to pour with my left hand. Apparently it’s bad luck. ‘What of left-handed people,’ I asked, but again the explanation was lost in the translation.
The men in the bar mistook me for one of them because of my dress and started addressing me in Lamnso, the local language. Bana had to explain that although I look like I’m from here I’m actually a Jamaican living in England.
They welcomed me warmly and went back to their beers – language can be such a barrier sometimes.
From there Bana showed me some more of the less salubrious areas of Squares before taking me to the Catholic Cathedral and some of the nicer bars and hotels.
I could have danced all night
I left him in Squares to go back to the office to show how very African I was looking. The dress met with much approval.
Then it was time to go home and replace the dress with more ‘night out at Squares’ attire. I met Chima and Immaculate there for a last drink before my departure, and was later joined by Bana who ended up leading me in a dance around the bar. I could have danced all night but alas, my companions attend church on Sundays and needed to leave early.
It’s the first time I’ve been able to totally relax and enjoy a social event since I’ve been here, knowing that all my tasks are completed.
Boy working outside the building soon he will be working inside
I am overjoyed to announce that Self Reliance Promotors NGO has received a donation of £150 for the A Course in Miracle Sutton Coldfield Group in the UK. Thank you very, very much guys. Some of that is being used to buy cement as I type.
The £150 is 112,000 Cameroonian franks. It will go a long way to helping to complete a third classroom. The director and all the staff at SEREP thank you very much.
Thursdays is market day in Kumbo. Maybe I should qualify that statement. There is a market everyday in Kumbo, even on Sundays. (Exception is Election Day). On Thursdays, however, it swells to almost twice its usual size. People come from miles away to both sell and buy.
Everything is slightly cheaper on market days because of the increased competition, and fresher too.
Thursday is also livestock day. Livestock sale is held at the far end of the market near the timber yard. I went with a friend who wanted to buy a goat and met him outside the supermarket.
‘Let’s go,’ he said heading in the direction of the market. He seemed in a hurry.
Goats at Kumbo’s livestock market
I followed, marvelling at how quickly he moved. When we got to the market it was absolutely heaving with goats. They were everywhere. In a thick clump in the main space allocated for livestock, on the side of the road, on banks leading up to the shoe side of the market and on banks leading down to the timber yards.
All of these goats were accompanied by men. All kinds of men, old ones, teenagers, Christian, Muslim, well fed and ones who looked in need of a good meal. Men who were still wearing their coats even though the sun was now hot in the sky.
The air was thick with the strong smell of goats. It caught me in the back of the throat when I opened my mouth to speak. It over powered the usual strong body odour of so many of the men here.
Some men had only one or two goats to sell, while others had 6 or 7 strung together in a web of ropes, tangled in such a way that if one went they would all go. A much easier prospect of recovery for the owner, as 7 uncoordinated goats all scrambling in different directions could not go far quickly.
Goats at Kumbo’s livestock market
My friend weaved his way through the men, rubbing shoulders as he squeezed through the more tightly packed ones. Not wishing to rub shoulders I tried to find the less direct route around them.
I followed him around for a while trying to make sense of what was being said, but they were haggling in their own language which left me out of the loop as I’m not skilled enough to understand the numbers.
I decided to stand on the edge of the crowd by a BBQ stall where a young man was busy roasting small pieces of meat on skewers. I watched as he turned them. He also turned bananas and small plantains that sat equally uncomfortably on the iron grid.
I took the opportunity to make a small film. One of the advantages of the video camera I have is that it looks like a phone. So when I’m filming it just looks like I’m talking on the phone. People are less suspicious than when they see me with a camera.
I remembered the man at the motor bike taxi rank that challenged me for taking pictures of them without asking or offering to pay them. I’d blagged it by saying I was taking a picture of the sign behind them.
Goat with legs tied
Anyway, after a while my friend found me and said he’d stuck a deal. The goat was bought. He wasn’t much more than a kid (if you’ll excuse the pun) and I watched as my friend tied his two front legs and then his two hind legs together.
‘Let’s get a bike for speed,’ he said and we found a rider who was more than willing to take a goat on this bike. So me, my friend and the goat were settled on the bike.
The goat sat in front of the rider with his legs straddling the rider, pointing backwards. My friend held on to them while I gratefully sat at the back of him. The only time I’d passed up an opportunity to sit in the middle.
We were dropped off at my friend’s house where he was going to kill the goat for a celebration. He asked if I wanted to watch. I should have said no, but I was curious to see how different this would be from the chicken Chima killed a few weeks ago.
Goat ready for slaughter
There was little ceremony about the whole affair. My friend had enlisted the help of one of his friends. He held the goat legs tight. His friend held the goat’s head and made a sharp incision in its neck.
There was a gurgling sound like bubbling larva as the bright red blood spurted out of the small hole at the goat’s throat. His friend grabbed a bowl and caught the blood. After a while the blood thickened and the spurt changed to a flow. His friend held the goat upside down till the flow changed to a trickle.
They then proceeded to disembowel the goat. My friend made a fire in the outside kitchen over which he burned all the hair off the goat. Then he cut off its head and its feet from the last knuckle down.
Goat well on its way to becoming dinner
I watched as he surgically dissected the animal into joints I’d recognise in a butchers shop in England. He handed me a piece and said ‘you must cook this and share it with the others in your house.’
It was Chima’s birthday and I decided to cook it as a birthday treat for him as I know he likes goat.
In the end five of us ate the goat curry I made. Two of us had a tiny amount, three ate heartily and the vegetarians stayed well clear.
After teaching my last lesson I headed off to collect some items of clothes that were being made for me.
Although I love the children the pressure of teaching twenty hours a week was beginning to tell. This is in conjunction with visiting the other projects at the weekend, writing the blogs and advising in a number of other capacities.
Now it was time to go and do some things for me. To go out and hail a bike for the first time on my own and say ‘take me to Tobin.’ To sit confidently on it even if I wasn’t confident I’d recognise where to tell him to drop me off.
Fortunately I didn’t have to worry too long about it as Immaculate, my seamstress, had come out into the road to make sure I didn’t get lost.
After only a few alterations I left clutching some beautiful garments. A long African gown, a western style suit and a top she truncated from and ill-fitting dress.
Happily clutching my purchases we returned to the bike rank to pick up a ride back to Nver (where I’m staying in Kumbo) to film Fred the director for a promo video.
That was my last duty of the day. I couldn’t wait to head out to Squares to eat the delicious fish and chips they prepare there, and to finally relax with a beer. Yes, I’m drinking beer – in the absence of a good Sauvignon Blanc.
When I wasn’t actually sleeping, (which I’ve done a lot of), I’ve been reflecting on the way my blog has been dominated by this ancestral search in the past few months.
Writing Creatively With Spirit 