Cameroon letter #2 - plane buddies and market friends

Dear Ruthanna,

I’m sitting in the ship cafeteria, looking out the window at the Douala rivermouth. Across the waterway is a distant line of treetops, green deeper than pine, with mist-softened tops. I know that among them is some large building with a bright blue light that haloed it like a small moonrise; I can’t see it now, but last night I wandered out alone onto the top deck and stood against the railing in the hushed night and watched the light for a while. It was one of those rare moments when my mind is still. Just me, still, in the overhanging night, watching the unblinking blue halo.

My plane flight was largely uneventful. On the flight from JFK to Brussels I sat in between a Belgian couple with a small child and an older Camerounian lady named Flor. Flor and I became friends right away. “On va passer la voyage ensemble?” she said, not a question – the absolute certainty African people have that of course, you would rather have a friend than not have one. And she was right, because I am such a communal animal. I just want to be with somebody, anybody; I don’t need to talk to them or have their attention, I just want to know we belong together.  Flor and I spent the trip mostly in amiable silence, trying to sleep in the uncomfortable chairs and listening to people snore, mumble, or cough all around us. The small child to my right had a gooey croupy cough and the girl behind me had extremely long legs so I couldn’t lean my chair back without grazing her kneecaps. It was a long night.

Ironic and hilarious ad for Brussels Airlines:

We arrived in Brussels at 7:30 a.m. Belgian time, 12:30 a.m. US time. Flor and I caught a shuttle to Terminal B, which must have been the hub for flights to Africa. It felt like I was back on the mother continent already, surrounded by dark-skinned bold-featured people speaking many different languages. Oddly, I was disconcerted that most of them were more stylishly dressed than I was. Okay, I wasn’t very stylishly dressed – leggings, a long tee, my black zip hoodie, tennis shoes – I chose comfort instead, hoping I’d sleep better on the airplane. (I didn’t.) But as I watched the lavishly, tastefully bedecked people go by, I thought how small my childhood world really was – it may have spanned 2 continents, but it was populated largely by people whose wardrobes come from Goodwill or Goodwill giveaways. And those are a large portion of the people in this world, but there is a whole other sector that I encountered after moving to the States, especially when I lived in Virginia – the people whose wardrobes go to Goodwill. I fit into both categories, but that’s mostly because when I’m done with a Goodwill item I’m likely to “return” it.

In the Brussels airport I met four other girls who were also headed to the Africa Mercy. I’d corresponded with them online before the trip, and it was nice to meet them. I sat down with Flor to try to write to you, and then we noticed the line to board our plane was forming. Flor is very aggressive about lines and shuttles, I’d already learned. She got up and rushed to join the boarding line, with me tailing after. “En Afrique,” she said sagely, her lips primly pursed, “on doit etre tot pour ne pas etre en retard.” True that. We boarded the plane and I was assigned to an aisle seat next to a composed African gentleman. I slept most of the trip, the fitful, difficult-to-shake sleep that comes when you are absolutely exhausted and totally out of sync. Toward the end of the trip I woke up to fill out my customs form. Uncertain how much cash I could carry without declaring it, I asked the African gentleman to my right. “Is it less than $1000?” he said. “If so, don’t declare it. Our country is wonderful, but the police – anh aannnh, they will make you wait until you make a bribe.” He then launched into a series of stories about his life, his career, his current ambitions, his wife, and his marital infidelity. I wasn’t sure what the point of all these stories was, exactly. I think it started out as a “you never know what life will bring you,” turned into a “life brought me my wife from the place I last expected – church” (which is ironic actually) and then concluded with “I’m not the best of people and I know it well, but I’m overall quite happy with my life and should be respected for that.” It was polite, somewhat confusing, and overall entertaining – which basically describes my experience with many African gentlemen.

I think I want Brussels Airlines to serve me coffee *every day*

In Cameroun I got off the airplane and stepped into a simmering smog of humidity, full of the scent of wood smoke, rain on mango leaves, and something fermenting – maybe the trash that is rife here. After nearly 2 hours waiting for my bags and getting my passport and visa checked, I joined a dozen other Mercy-Ship-bound new friends climbing into white jeeps emblazoned with the Mercy Ships logo. The driver dodged oncoming traffic, buzzing moto-taxis, and random pedestrians scattered through the dusk-turning-night along the half-paved dusty road to the port. Just outside the gate to the AFM (Africa Mercy) shipyard, a man tapped on the driver’s window and she rolled it down. “My sister-in-law has fibroids,” he said urgently in French, “can you help her?”

“Unfortunately, we’ve filled all our spots for the OB surgeon,” said the driver in English.

The man didn’t understand English. I hadn’t meant to blow my French-speaking cover yet, but I grew increasingly uncomfortable watching him and the driver attempt to talk. Finally I leaned forward and said in French, “She says all the spots for the OB surgeon are already filled.”

“You can’t treat her?” said the man desperately. I remembered my Africa days and I knew this would continue if I said no.

“Who can know for sure?”  I said. “Right now all the spots are filled, but only God knows the future. Maybe if you ask again something will have changed.”

He agreed, and we drove through the gate. I found out today that there are still some spots open, so I hope he asked again.

The ship yard (view from the top deck of the ship)

The seven-deck ship is docked in the Douala port on the Douala Rivermouth. It towered above the paved shipyard, where we made our way to a tent beside the gangplank to wash our hands – a prerequisite every time anyone boards the ship.

Part of the side of the ship (the rest is out of sight beyond the warehouse)

Inside the ship, we had our pictures taken for our new badges, ate dinner, and did some paperwork. I found my way to my room, a 6-berth with bunk beds in little curtained cubicles.

The berth I share with Jill

My bunkmate is Jill, a warm-hearted girl from West Virginia who is funny and kind and has grilled cheese sandwiches on her socks. She gave me the top bunk and I immediately put Monkey on it. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I slept like a rock.

Monkey

We had the next day – Monday – free. My roommate Jill, my new friends Rachel, Jill (yes there are 2), and Megan, and I caught the Mercy Ships shuttle into Douala and walked around for a while. With my Islam-varnished childhood in the back of my mind, I felt almost naked going into town bareheaded, wearing a tee shirt and long capris – but that’s the normal dress-code in Douala.

The girlgang

We went to a small artisanal market, a beehive of dark shops overflowing with wooden statuettes, traditional masks, bright mumus, and fake flower arrangements.


Jill browsing in a shop

A beautiful peacock-esque palm

The parking for the market :D :D :D

 Beautiful traditionally-dyed cloth

One of the vendors saw us coming, hopped up, and ran away shouting, “E Baban Gida zo!” That was probably the most beautiful moment of my first day in Cameroon, the moment of absolute unthinking exhilaration when how I really feel bursts through every layer of question and culture and fear and identity, and I am just entirely that emotion. I could feel the delight radiating out of me. I approached the man, greeted him in French, and asked, “Were you calling Baban Gida?”

“Yes,” he said, “that’s the shop owner.”

“Baban Gida, that’s a Hausa name,” I said.

“And how do you know about Hausa?” he asked.

I told him, and he lit up. A group of Hausa vendors emerged from the shadows to greet me and test out my Hausa. For a couple happy moments I felt so at home, and then the familiar old despised feeling crept in, that sense of being a curiosity. Uniqueness is a two-edged sword – when commonality is the focus, it brings a very powerful sense of belonging, but often people focus on its novelty and curiosity instead, and those elements can be very alienating. I felt myself shutting down, felt the resentment slipping in – dangit, I wanted to be one of those who speak Hausa, not That Girl That Just Spoke Hausa. I quickly said goodbye and walked away, both saddened and relieved to slip back into the collective identity of One of the White Girls. On the street we were Together with each other, Other from Douala. A part of me wanted to shift skins, sit down on the cool irregular concrete floor of the artisanal market, and listen to the friendly banter of the merchants as a child of the Hausa. The other part of me was thankful - in the inescapable distancing imposed by my white skin and the horrific history of my remote ancestors' interactions with the land that raised me - for the gift, familiar safety, belonging, of being One of the White Girls the taxis honk at and people stare at, those upon whom wordless isolation is imposed and who find in it a greater friendship. I think I spend most of my life, the communal animal every bit of me is wired to be, wanting to just belong and hating how much I want it.

Pic in front of one of the shipping containers that line the shipyard

I started orientation Tuesday – today. I’ll tell you about it next time.

Love you, Tabi