Blackstone Operations

Day 5 (Part II) June 20^th

Yesterday was a big night for Cameroon. This was the day of their second match in the FIFA World Cup. They had lost their last match and needed to win this match against Denmark to still be able to remain in the tournament. The buzz before the match was pretty intense. Literally everyone was coming out to pack bars and the streets to watch the game. We went to a bar a few minutes away that had a really big flat screen TV and nice speakers as well (it was completely packed when we got there).

Watching the Cameroonians was nearly as interesting as watching the match. The crowd often (read: always) cheered even when an attempted goal was missed, so long as the kick was somewhere in the stadium they could still cheer it seemed. Every kick was met with cheers of enthusiasm. When the players made errors, there were cheers of enthusiasm. When a player got a yellow card but the replay showed the Denmark player holding his face in pain, there were cheers of enthusiasm. With this charged response to every event that could somehow be construed as a benefit for the Cameroonian team, one could barely imagine what would happen if they scored…

About 15 minutes into the match Cameroon scored; Buea nearly blew itself off the map. The roars and shouting were deafening as everyone rose to their feet (I was actually leaping in the air as well—I wanted them to win) and shouted and cheered. One man picked up the gentleman next to him (I’m still not certain if they knew each other) and lifted him onto his shoulders, both of them punching fists in the air. High fives and jubilant hugs were being given out everywhere and just as all of this started to die down they showed an instant replay of the score; the town erupted again as if seeing the score for the first time. A second and third instant replay produced the same response and I was almost hoping for it to keep going since each celebration was such fun.

Alas, they would go on to lose the match. Considering how emotional everyone was about the team’s successes, I expected an equally emotional response to the loss (perhaps not equally). Instead, though the city was definitely crushed, most seemed to take the loss pretty well. As Derrick (a good guy and friend of ours who works at HINT) put it, “Well, someone has to not make it.” Though he was obviously disappointed, he had a healthy outlook on the setback that made me really want to remember that moment.

The night was not a complete loss however. Everyone seemed intent on drowning out our sorrow in tasty cow. The beef (which is referred to simply as cow here…which makes sense much in the way that we don’t commonly refer to chicken as poultry) that is very commonly sold on the streets here is AMAZING! It’s somewhat like a shish kabob but with excellent seasoning and this crazy pepper seasoning that they put on everything. It’s called maggi but I’ll get to maggi some other time when I focus more on the food here. It was really good but I nearly got some in my eye. It really irritated my eyes so I started to rub it out. At this point Jones laughed and grabbed my hand, “Don’t touch your eyes. If you do, you will never see the stars again” he said, pointing into the sky.

Day 5 (June 20, 2010)

Part 1

Yesterday was a very bizarre day indeed. Ever since Robert and I bought our cell phones (which was quite the experience in and of itself) for around 13,500, I’ve been low on cash on hand. Robert can’t access his checking account from here so I’ve been doing all the spending thus far, which really isn’t so bad considering the exchange rate. I decided to go back to the bank to withdraw money for food and such. My my my.

It was one of those cab rides where the cab driver packed us in like a fat boy shoving in fistfuls of popcorn. The bank is a pretty good distance away so I would probably have to pay 250XAF for it. The cab system here is peculiar in that the fare is always the same—200XAF—unless you go a long way, in which case the price increases to 250 or maybe even 300XAF. How much it takes to get to that point is up to the cab driver’s discretion. As a foreigner, somehow that distance seems to come pretty quickly.

“Bicec Bank please” I stated as the cab slid in front of me. The cab driver simply stared straight ahead, the other 4 passengers of the car waiting in equal silence with equally blank stares. Sweet he’s going that direction, I thought as I climbed in. The cab driver quickly sped off in the familiar direction of the bank. After some time he stopped to let one of the passengers out and another soon was added, her destination unintelligible to me from what she told him. The driver continued down the road, and I saw the bank coming up.

Great I can get out of this stuffy car…

The cab continued past the bank.

Ok…

The cab continued.

Perhaps someone else in the car has to get out ahead up there, and then on his way back down the road he’ll let me out.

The cab driver turned to me and clearly began to ask a question in complete French.

“Something something Bicec something something?” he said.

Hmmm… “Yes I’m going to Bicec bank.” He appeared angry at this point.

“Something Something Something Something Something!”

I’m not sure what he’s saying…perhaps if I just kind of stare ahead… and look stoic…

The cab car pulled to a stop on the side of the road.

“Something something something” someone in the back quietly said.

Yes, yes, he must be mad at him (in the back). He couldn’t be mad at me…I very clearly said Bicec bank.

Unsure what to do, I continued to sit in silence, staring at the driver out of the corner of my eye. He appeared irritated at first, but then exceptionally angry.

“Something something! Something something something! Something!” He shouted. At this point everyone in the car started joining in. I even fancy I may have felt a slap on the back of my head. “Something!”

Ah hah, they must want me out of the car.

I opened the door and struggled to squeeze past the lady crammed next to me, “Pardon me, very sorry, no funny business intended I swear, very embarrassing indeed” as I brushed against her and out the door. I handed the cab driver 500XAF, he gave me 350 back and sped off.

Why did he give me 350 back? So cheap? And I’m a foreigner…

I looked up and saw the long walk back towards the bank.

Of course.

Shoving the coins in my pocket I began the trek over to the bank. Later, standing in front of the ATM machine, I would realize that I had left my wallet back at the house.

I went to church today with Sally, Adam, Sabrina, and the children.  It was a very interesting service.  The service started at 0900 but we got there at 1000 as we had to bathe and dress the children before leaving the house.  We then walked up the street to the church where Genesis is a pastor.

We entered to the crowd standing in song.  They were singing that the fire of the Holy Spirit rain down upon us.  And rain it did.  Not long into the service it began to rain harder than I had witnessed before in Cameroon (although I recall a time in Ohio being worse).  About twenty minutes later the rain abruptly stopped.

Then the preacher began raining down screams and yells,  telling us that God did not tell us to be satisfied but only content.  He said that we should not be satisfied but tell God that we need more of him.  It was quite a contrast to the Catholic services that I grew up with.

In the end (1230), neither Adam nor I were converted.  But, it was surely a experience that spoke to onces soul/spirit/mind.

Tonight we took the Cameroon-Denmark World Cup game in a bar.  Cameroon scored within the first 12 minutes and the bar erupted into shouts and cheers.  The man next to me violently threw away his table and hopped onto of it.  Towering above the crowd he made his voice heard above the din as he hollered and danced about.  The celebration was so intense that the large screen television on which the game was being viewed became unplugged.

Shots on goal were celebrated just slightly less than goals – a pair of women threatened to pick each other up each time a shot was made and playfully sparred with each other in the process.

I was completely comprised by the lack of bemoanments after Denmark tied the score.  Furthermore, the bar patrons didn’t even protest the call of the referee which were at times bad.  It was an interesting contrast to the host of jeers aimed at referees commonly heard while taking in a game at a bar or with friends in the states.

I’m sure most people reading this already know that the taxis in Cameroon work differently than in the U.S.  (they go along the road picking up multiple people with no connection to each other that are going to different destinations as long as they are along the same street and direction).  But the taxis are even more crazy than you might have read.  The normal occupancy for a 5-seat sedan taxis is 6 people.  The extra person sits next to the person in the front seat as they edge behind the gear shift.

We have arrived in Buea, Cameroon. When we got here it was around 29C about 94F or so (I didn’t convert I’m just throwing out some number that I remember that may or may not have been given at the same time.

It took us some time to get from the airport (in Douala) to Buea. Along the way we were stopped by some police at a roadblock and they hassled the driver (a friend of our host) about his car’s yearly registration.

Our host’s house is large and has many rooms. There is glass on the windows and locks on each door. It seems very secure. There arn’t any mosquito nets, but I only saw three bugs in our room and none were mosquitoes. I will try and post pictures but the internet connection here is very slow and I may have to wait untill we return to the states before posting pictures.

One of the aid workers staying with us, Adam, is an undergraduate university student in England. He will be a 4th year when school starts up again and he is here doing research for his dissertation on creating clean water supplies by preventive methods.

The variation of speed across websites is very interesting here. It seems that facebook.com is doing a really good job of being global, they have the fastest loading times I have seen, even images appear quickly. Google seems to be doing a horrible job, their loading speed is even slower than my own server (parked over at MIT).

Day 2 (June 17, 2010)

I woke up today to the screeching of a rooster. It was, quite hilariously, exactly as it sounds in the movies (and no less irritating). At breakfast, Sabrina informed me that I was right to be skeptical of my malaria pills. She spoke to a dermatologist after she began taking it who told her that it’s really more of an antibacterial medication than something specifically intended for malaria treatment. She had, in fact, gotten malaria while in Mexico while taking these very pills. Brilliant.

Day 1 (June 16, 2010)

It’s hard to describe the exact atmosphere of Cameroon as I’ve perceived it so far. Upon arrival at the Douala airport, the mass lines with little direction quickly emphasized that things were run differently here than they were in the US (or even Europe from the brief times I’ve spent there). The baggage claim area, though always slightly disordered in its own right, was lively chaos. As I walked in, three conveyor belts were churning out luggage as crowds scrambled to retrieve them. The far conveyor belt was particularly overzealous and a pool of luggage had accumulated at the end of the line, each bag being shoved over by the one behind it. I was confused for a bit—though indeed everyone seemed to be moving around and talking at once, no one seemed to be moving to clear the mass of bags that constantly grew. I quickly spotted my yellow Wake Forest Rugby bag and began to navigate my way through the crowd of bags, stopping occasionally to regain my balance after being bumped and jostled without any apparent concern or notice.

When Robert and I had both secured our luggage, we decided to take on the infamous customs process (Or shall I say adventure? Perhaps ordeal would be more appropriate). It was difficult to know where to begin. Though there were clearly two separate doors to the outside Cameroonian world, one marked “Customs—Nothing To Declare” and the other “Customs—Goods To Declare”, we weren’t sure how to proceed. The doors to the route of no declaration were closed and a solitary customs officer (I assume? He wore no uniform but his nonchalant demeanor and his apparent obligation to remain in that same spot for over 20 minutes suggested some sort of authority) sat there, staring blankly at everyone. The other door, however, was open and before it stood several (uniformed) customs officers opening and inspecting luggage. Did all these people have goods to declare and thus the search? And what exactly was I supposed to declare and how should I declare it?

Before I could resolve any of these questions, another officer wearing a third uniform approached me.

“What’s in the bag?” He gestured towards my backpack.

“A computer…and some books” I replied. A curious smile crept across his face.

Ugh, did I just declare incorrectly?

“Do you want to go through customs”

Of course not!

“ I have no problem going through customs…I have nothing to hide”

“Yes but if you go through customs they will open your bag…”

I thought I just told you what was in the bag anyway…

“Why don’t you follow me outside” he continued, beginning to walk away towards the door. “Come with me, you won’t have to have your bags searched.” Not one to argue with authority (which I suppose isn’t actually true but I certainly have a lot more reservations with it when I’m freshly arrived in a new country) I followed him outside where happy Cameroonians were being reunited with their friends and family. I was being picked up by a man, Levi, who had exchanged emails with me and informed me that he would be picking me up and taking me to Genesis’ home. I began to scan the crowd looking for him when the officer tapped me on the shoulder.

“Alright…” he began in a very innocent voice, “I’ve helped you out now. Now you help me out…what can you give me?” Ah, here was the infamous bribe at last. Sadly neither Robert nor I had managed to get any US Dollars converted into the XAF currency used here. The officer didn’t seem to mind when I offered up that excuse. Broke, I turned to Robert, hoping he had brought cash. As he dug around in his bag, another man began to shove us to the side to make way for more people. At this point Robert began to shove bills into my hand before diving into his bag to look for more.

“How much are you trying to give him?!” I asked incredulously.

“I’m trying to get $50.” I counted out $20 in my hand already and forced the rest back into his bag. Surely the officer could not have expected $50 for his help. I handed the $20 to the officer.

“That’s all we have” The officer looked at it and started to shake his head, very disappointedly, almost angrily. At this point I saw a man with an upside down sign that read “Turner Robert”. Upon recognizing each other (he saw me staring and beginning to point at him) he bounded over, apologizing for his lateness. Somehow some more men (whom we would later have to pay as well) materialized and offered to help carry our bags to the car. It wasn’t until later that I realized that Levi knew them about as well as I did.

The car ride back to Buea theoretically takes 1 hour and 30 minutes. This, to me, must only occur under divine intervention. The roads in Cameroon appear designed to create the best possible situations for a car accident short of leading two one way streets into each other. There are no lines to determine how many lanes fit to the road and often times there are no lines to separate the cars going one way from the other. Roads criss-cross into one another or rapidly condense from 5 lanes down to one (the source of a very hot hour-long delay). I’ve drawn below some of the perplexing road designs. In spite of this, the locals were masters at navigating the roads and avoiding seemingly inevitable collisions. It helped that 70% of the vehicles on the road were motor bikes of some kind, weaving in between cars and even driving on the sidewalks. My driver, Russel, seemed to take no notice of most of these bikes that we encountered, frequently squeezing them out of the road while taking no apparent notice of the honks and screeches from the angry commuters now behind him.

At some point I must have fallen asleep because I woke up as we were pulling down a very bumpy path that led to Genesis’ home. It was very dark at this point. I thanked the three gentlemen that had helped us as they left and turned to find a white male about my age (who quickly introduced himself as Adam), a white female perhaps a little older (who later introduced herself as Sabrina), two girls (young and screaming), a girl about my age as well (whose name I’ve already forgotten how to pronounce), and an older woman whom I assumed was Genesis’ wife (and whose name I promptly forgot as well). Everyone was very friendly and showed us to our room (which is pretty good) before returning to watch Uruguay punish the South Africans in a 3-0 World Cup loss.

I’ll talk more about the room and the people later; I’ve only just been introduced to both. Adam, I will note, plays rugby! He’s from an area “about an hour south of London” and plays for both his university team and his home club.

Even though the interview went really well, and the PSC office even sent our application to the Baker Foundation for consideration, we didn’t get the PSC Fellowship.  However, we are still waiting for the Baker Foundation’s decision as well as some PSC Grants.

I was offered an interview for the PSC Fellowship money, one more hurdle to go.

Dear Robert,
I am happy to offer you an interview for the summer Public Service Fellowships program.

The half-hour discussions with PSC staff will take place April 5-14. I will be emailing you access to a google doc sign-up sheet.  Please sign-up before 5:00pm on Wednesday, 7 (and as soon as possible). If possible, I’d like you to sign-up for a time on Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. We will not sign-up anyone by email or phone unless they are out of the area or there is an emergency that prevents them from signing-up in person.

The Public Service Fellowships selection schedule and selection criteria are posted on the PSC website http://web.mit.edu/mitpsc/resources/internshipsandfellowships/, so please look there for more information about the process.

Please note that in many of these meetings we ask applicants to brainstorm with us about ways to strengthen their projects or make them better fit the Public Service Fellowships model. You should expect a working meeting in which your project plans may be revised. Also note that not everyone who is invited to interview will be offered Fellowship funding.

The interviews are informal, so you do not need to dress up.

If you have any questions, or need to tell me about any problems, please email me.

All the best,
Alison