Baine and Laurie: Almost Home

Today is our last day in Boyo (we will travel tomorrow to the airport and fly out of Cameroon on Thursday), and I can feel a flood of emotions rushing in.

I was surprised and happy yesterday when a Cameroonian friend said to me, “I have noticed that you seem much happier here this year than before.” When he said that, I realized that I was in the middle of a smile – of which I was previously unaware and which I can only explain by my general pleasure in talking with some of my Cameroonian friends. My friend was right; I AM happier here this year. And it is because of that happiness that I am now finding myself in a deeper state of sadness to leave Cameroon.

I spent most of the day yesterday with Anna (the woman who picked me up and spun me around when I arrived in Cameroon a few weeks ago), and we both fought tears about my departure throughout the day. While we waited quietly for my taxi to pick me up and drive me away from Anna for another year, I felt so strange. I broke the silence, staring across the mountains that surround us here, and said, “I’m very sad to be leaving you.” Anna didn’t say anything; she just put her arm around me, gently rubbed my shoulder, and then let her arm rest on me. It felt as though the whole world became quiet and still.

In years past, I have sat in moments like this with Anna, but I’ve been too eager to get away (fantasizing about the food I’m going to eat, movies I’m going to watch, and people I’m going to see when I get home). But this year, in addition to all my fantasies about home, I feel sad to be leaving.

During our first week in Cameroon this year, I became deeply aware of the burden of responsibility (to save BERUDEP and the people of Boyo from poverty, oppression, pain) that I was carrying and that I had been working so hard to break free of.

It is a very painful and infuriating reality for me that I have no control over the pain in my own life or in the lives of others. I often find myself in manic, futile attempts to control life’s circumstances – which is exhausting and impossible enough of a task when it is focused on my own life, much less on all of the people that I come into contact with in this world.

But the reality is that it is neither possible nor my place to control such circumstances. My place is, rather, to accept the reality of joy and pain (though to be no less thankful, happy, angry, sad… by it all) and to enter, not frantically avoid or fight, those places with those around me. I am beginning to learn that it is in those entered places that, somehow, beauty, healing, holiness, and hope dwell.

When I sat with Anna yesterday and she showered me with gratitude and praise for all that I have done for her, BERUDEP, and the people in Boyo, I felt furious at the imbalance of power in this world – in my relationship with Anna. Why – FREAKING WHY?! – do I have the power to give and take away from Anna? Why do I have so much (wealth, education…) and she have so little?

As soon as these questions came to mind, I began to despise – deeply despise – my position of wealth, education, and power. I didn’t want that kind of power over another human being – the kind of power that can literally determine another person’s life or death. It’s NOT fair or good or holy!

I, momentarily, found myself denying the reality of my position and fantasized about withholding anything (emotional, mental, spiritual, material) that I had to give so that I would feel less responsible, less guilty, less PAIN when the days and moments come that I am, in fact, powerless over another person’s life – over Anna’s life. (Are you beginning to see my Savior complex yet?!)

I am beginning to realize that we all have this struggle to some degree and in some form. Some of us fight life like arrogant, ferocious cats, and some of us avoid life and hide like scared little mice. Most of us fluctuate between the two. But we are all afraid – of pain, of death, of being alone.

I was faced with a choice of deep spiritual significance when I sat with Anna yesterday. I could pretend that I possessed and deserved all the power and responsibility to save her from pain, death, and loneliness (via absorbing her gratitude with pure arrogance and pride). Or I could pretend that I neither possessed nor deserved any power and responsibility to care for and serve Anna (via withholding everything – emotional, mental, spiritual, material – that I have to give). OR I could enter the joy and pain of trying to find intimacy and connection with Anna in the midst of both of our broken hearts and broken world.

Conscious or not, this is my dilemma and struggle – our dilemma and struggle – at the root of every decision I/we make. Now, as it is time for me to leave Cameroon and return home once again, I pray for the strength to enter the places of joy and pain with the people around me and to, somehow, encounter the beauty, healing, holiness, and hope that dwell there.

TIA is an acronym that brings mild comfort to we minority worldians (i.e., “developed” worldians) attempting to live with relative sanity in the majority world (i.e., “developing” world) continent of Africa. When the electricity or water (or both) go out for days for no apparent reason, when it can take a whole day to have 1 meeting, or when we are convinced that the stomach pains, indescribable nausea, aching, feverish muscles, and an ungodly number of trips to the toilet in one night (as it did 2 nights ago for Baine and me) will, in fact, be the last of our days on earth – we can only repeat the phrase TIA (This Is Africa).

When my minority world brain is demanding an explanation and a “right” to live with as much happiness, freedom, and comfort as possible, the cold, unrelenting, consistent response is TIA. It is only after numerous repetitions of this phrase that I can begin to except my fate of illness and discomfort and find relative solace in the shared experience of my poor husband who was also lying in the fetal position and managing to follow me into the bathroom to gently rub my back and bring water and a cold rag for me while my head hung over the toilet at 1 am – so romantic.

Despite such a night and the lingering nausea and stomach pains of the next day, we managed to drag ourselves to the waste pit digging and celebration yesterday morning. Several weeks of research and educating Kom people about the dangers of plastic and the importance of returning to traditional ways (e.g., using hand-woven, natural baskets instead of plastic bags) came to a climax at this morning’s celebration. I was relieved that the colors and sounds of Cameroon were beautiful even in the midst of illness. Here are some pictures from the day:

TRADITIONAL DANCERS:


THE WASTE PIT:

This morning, we traveled about an hour to visit the palace of the Fon (like the king of the Kom tribe). “Palace” is a bit of a deceiving word since much of the compound is built with traditional materials: mud bricks and grass roofs. The central quarter – where we met the Fon – was lined with beautiful, intricate, woodcarvings and totem poles, and the Fon sat under a canopy – surrounded by traditional bags, tapestries, gourds adorned with colorful beads, and a huge leopard skin on the ground beneath the Fon’s feet. On one side of the central quarter was the women’s quarter (the Fon has about 400 wives!) and on the other side was the men’s quarter (all a part of the Fon’s (men-only) secret society). Also, we learned that the Fon’s oldest wife stays in the house closest to him and is apparently the one who chooses which of the wives gets to “go see” the Fon. I should just take a minute here to say how completely foreign and disturbing this entire system is. It was difficult not to feel angry and offended, but I kept reminding myself that 1) I am not one of the Fon’s wives and 2) I was there to observe and be open to learning about this culture’s ways of being. This conversation with myself occurred multiple times throughout our visit.

The highlight of the day occurred as a result of an innocent mistake in the way that Baine interacted with the Fon.

As we (Baine, the students, 2 BERUDEP staff, and I) followed one of the Fon’s men into the central quarter, we were escorted to a line of benches that sat facing the Fon on the completely opposite side of the quarter. We were to remain quiet, avoid crossing our legs, and wait for the Fon to address us.

Being the leaders of our group, Baine and I were chosen to approach and talk with the Fon (all of this being mediated and translated by our friend Simon – the director of BERUDEP.) So we walked quietly up to the Fon’s throne with our hands humbly crossed in front of us and our shoulders slightly hunched.

Those of you who know me know that I have “mild” issues with authority and with established systems. Thus, you can fully appreciate how much pride suckage it took for me to humbly and quietly approach and offer gifts to (a requirement to being admitted in the first place) this mere man who has 400 wives! It shouldn’t be surprising then that, as we approached the throne, I had a brief fantasy about being a brilliant martial artist assassin, hired to kill the Fon. It was difficult to contain a smile of amusement at my imagination at this point. :)

Moving on… Upon learning that we were Americans, the Fon proceeded to tell us that, because of some indiscernible explanation, having something to do with royalty and genealogy traced through the line of the mother (???), Americans are actually Kom people. Although we had no idea what he was talking about, we did know that he was trying to say that we were welcome, that he liked us, that even though we’re so different, on a deeper level, we are the same. This became the invitation for Baine’s innocent mistake.

Wanting to confirm what the Fon had said and return the affection, Baine started eagerly digging in his bag and pulled out a traditional Kom hat that was recently made for him. He showed the hat to the Fon and said, “Yes, I really am Kom. We are the same. You see…” pointing to his hat, “I am Kom.” Meanwhile, I was noticing a mild look of concern on Simon’s face who then tried to casually ask Baine (who, at that point, was in the process of putting the hat on) to put the hat away. As Baine put it away, he and I made eye contact, in which my eyes said, “Oh crap! What did you just do?!” and Baine’s eyes said, “Oh crap! What did I just do?! I was just trying… I didn’t know…” During those moments, Simon and the Fon exchanged some words in their dialect, and Simon said that we should go sit and that he would explain things then.

My imagination was running wild with what kind of danger we could be in. But although I was somewhat disappointed to learn that the “danger” we were in was merely a matter of money (you have to pay the Fon to bless any traditional hat that is shown or worn in his presence), but I was VERY excited to learn about the process that Baine was about to have to go through.

The bad news was that, though Simon took pictures for us, the students and I (being female) were not allowed to watch all of the process. (This only allowed my imagination to run wild again with thoughts like them sacrificing a chicken over Baine’s head!) The part we missed was this: Baine was escorted into a grass hut in the men’s quarter, asked to kneel in front of a fire, had ashes (source?) rubbed in his hair (this freaked Baine out), a bright, red feather placed in his hat, and his hat placed on his head. (I can’t believe I wasn’t allowed to watch this.) This process actually meant that Baine is officially apart of the Fon’s secret (men-only) society – SO hilarious.

Once Baine returned to the central quarter, he was asked to kneel before the Fon and receive a drink (which the Fon poured directly into Baine’s cupped hands) as the Fon blessed him. (I got to watch this part.)

In the end, I was very happy that Baine made such an innocent mistake. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that experience!