A day in the life of an organisational development advisor...
on Tales from a Mud Hut (Cameroon), 25/Oct/2008 10:49, 34 days ago
Life in my compound begins with the call to prayer at 4:30am.  I had no idea that such an hour as 4:30am existed until the mosque near my house installed speakers; now their call to prayer is so loud my house practically shakes with it.  Not being muslim, I refuse to leave my bed until at least 7:30am, at which point I go to the bathroom to make use of the first of my Great Luxuries: running water.  My shower is somewhat temperamental, in that more water comes out of the unidentified pipes on the wall than out of the shower head.  Taking my morning shower therefore requires me to run back and forth between the various torrents while taking care not to slip on soap suds or passing spiders.Having decided to avoid Men on Honda Street, my bike and I wobble down the longer but infinitely more scenic route to work.  On our way we pass some or all of the following: herds of cows, sheep or goats that wander down the centre of the road, apparently without anyone to mind them; groups of children who shout 'nasaara' (white person) to get my attention before dissolving into fits of giggles (I've never been able tofigure out what's so funny); the man who lives by the side of the road and holds long conversations with himself in Fulfulde; vultures with great hulking backs and tiny pink heads who pick at discarded trash; market vendors selling fruit, vegetables and phone cards, who think my name is 'chérie'; thousands upon thousands of lizards; women selling beans and beignets (doughnuts), the oh-so-sumptuous meal that is going to render me the only person to go to Africa and actually put on weight.I arrive at the MDDHL office and begin Work.  It turns out that VSO intends for its volunteers to do very little Work - we are supposed to assist others in doing more and better Work themselves, as apparently this is more sustainable.  Currently I'm preparing a workshop that will explain all this to my colleagues: I hope to temper the newsthat they'll all have to do more Work by investing in a bountiful supply of tea and croissants; however I fear they may see through this strategy.Some time between 12pm and 1pm I break for lunch with my two nasaara colleagues; some time between 2pm and 3:30pm we come strolling back into the office to discover that everyone else is still on their lunch break.  Everyone, that is, except Yacoubou, who is a constant presence behind his desk at all hours of the day, even when (as is currently the case) he has malaria.Twice a week at 3ish our Fulfulde teacher arrives.  His name is Oumarou and his 'real job' is as a talent scout for professional football players.  This means that at a moment's notice he may be sent to some far-flung corner of the continent to retrieve a promising young player and escort him somewhere equally far-flung.  Such is the case today,and so Sarah (my partner in crime for Fulfulde classes and other Work-avoidance schemes) are planning to sit down with our copious sheets of illegible notes and see if we are capable of teaching ourselves.  We may even do a better job than Oumarou, who sees nothing wrong with jumping from the present tense to the subjunctive when he knows very well that we can barely say 'hello'.In the evenings I cycle home.  The light here is so beautiful around 5:30pm that the whole city appears to be under some kind of enchantment, and even the cries of 'nasaara! nasaara!!' can't disturb my peace.  I arrive at my house to find Babadou, Abdoulaye's cat, waiting for me to let him in.  He spends about an hour scuffling about the living room, looking for trouble and tinned fish, before eventually getting bored and wandering off.Each evening the question of how to fill the hours of darkness between 6pm and whenever I decide to go to bed is raised.  Occasionally I find that the solution is to go to bed at 6pm, but mercifully there's usually enough going on in Maroua to keep me occupied.  Fried fish, grilled chicken, and even pizza and banana bead (courtesy of a fellow volunteer's chef boyfriend) are all a moto-taxi ride away, as are the houses of various volunteers who are often equally baffled as to how to kill time in the evenings.On weekends Maroua fills up with volunteers coming in from the villages, looking for entertainment.  So far this has meant that a large and raucous group of ex-pats has gathered at The Bar Opposite the Chicken Place (to use its official name) drinking Cameroonian beer and eating fried chicken with their fingers in the dark, so that you cannot tell until you put it in your mouth whether what youare attempting to eat is chicken, bone, slice of onion or random stray insect.So that's what I do all week.  Not a bad life, all told.