Thursday, October 28, 2010

Ode to 6eme

It's more than likely that you have heard me complain (possibly at length) about my 6emes. They are both my largest class (about 90) and my youngest (6th graders...so 10-16 years old). I see them for five hours a week -- one hour on Mondays, and two on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yeah. Imagine trying to get 90 6th graders to do anything for two straight hours. Now imagine them four to a desk in 100 degree heat paying attention to someone (me) speaking to them in a foreign language for two straight hours. Yeah.

BUT I have been feeling rather fond of them this week, as they almost all did extremely well on their exams, and I am beginning to feel like at least some of them might be learning a handful of words of English, which totally validates the U.S. government spending thousands of dollars to bring me here. So, with all that said, I thought I would take some time to dwell on some of the wonderful things about teaching 6eme. They may be my largest and most overwhelming class, but they are also probably my most enthusiastic...and certainly my most adorable class (picture 90 6th graders standing up and shouting "GOOD MORNING" at the top of their lungs at you every time you walk into the room. Yeah. Adorable.).

So, as I mentioned, my 6eme class (there are two sections -- I only teach one) consists of about 90 6th graders ages 10-16...Most are in the 10-12 range, with a handful of kids that are clearly quite a bit older. I have about 10 or 15 girls, too, who I try not to play favorites with, but just adore. Several of them are among my best students, too. At my high school there are probably close to 200 students in 6eme altogether, and when you think about how there are only 13 in my Terminale (Seniors in high school) this year, it can be pretty discouraging...but it is hard to dwell on that in class when you ask a question and see 50 hands fly into the air, students literally climbing out of their seats they are so excited to answer your question. Here are some of the wonderful and hilarious things they say to (okay usually shout at) me:

1) "Exercise! Exercise!"
This was confusing to me in my first weeks of teaching, because at the same time as I would start my class, the other section of 6eme would be going out to play sports. "Exercise? Like you want to go run around?" It turns out that "exercise" is the word they have learned (or adopted from French?) for an activity that we do in class. For some reason, they LOVE to do fill in the blanks. One time to practice numbers in English I had them do math (one + one = ____) and the expressions on their faces were incredible. They were just delighted.

2) "Boxer Madame! He is boxer!"
Like "exercise", I am not sure where they learned this word, but it is what they say to me when someone hits someone else during class. Which happens pretty much every day. I have tried to teach them the verbs "to hit" or "to fight" but they will not catch on. When I hear a ruckus and ask "What is the problem?", every time it is "He is boxer!"

3) "Please Madame, I am very very quiet!"
This is what my kids like to tell me when they see me getting mad at them for making too much noise, or tell them I will only choose someone to write on the board who is quiet. I have tried to explain to them (in English and French) that if they are shouting at me that they are quiet, they are not in fact being quiet. It has not been understood. However, I have to give them points for trying, right?

So this is my 6eme class -- exhausting, overwhelming, enthusiastic and hilarious. Almost as often as they frustrate me, they make me laugh...and on top of that, I get to work with students who are so excited to learn. I can definitely remember being in a foreign language class when I was young and all of a sudden being able to fit a new piece of the language puzzle into my brain -- connecting it to my first language and seeing how it was delightfully both similar and different. I see those lights go off in my 6emes -- see kids so excited by the fact that they can express themselves in a new way -- and it becomes pretty easy to forget about the talkers and the boxers.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Teacher's Day

Last Tuesday (October 5th) was International Teacher's Day, and my first opportunity to celebrate a real Cameroonian fete. Not only was it my first fete in Cameroon, it was also a fete specifically for me. The day was every bit as hilarious and unpredictable as I had expected.

It began with a thunderstorm early in the morning, making it questionable if I would even be able to find someone to take me to Mora where the big party was, about 15km (half an hour on a moto) away. Motos tend to disappear almost magically when storm clouds roll in (especially when you are stranded somewhere you don't want to be), reappearing gradually and cautiously only several hours later. Around five in the morning when I got up it was still raining, but I decided not to worry until it got closer to the time I needed to leave. Which brought me to my next problem – when to leave. The Cameroonian concept of time is very different from the American concept, which is rigid and precise, based on clocks and watches and money (Cameroonians love to watch Americans get annoyed at tardiness, then say “Time ees money” and laugh hysterically), and so ingrained in us that we don't even realize how much we rely on it until we arrive somewhere that thinks about it differently...which I'm coming to believe is most places outside of America. In Cameroon things just happen...usually whenever people feel like showing up for them. When I asked my principal the day before what time things would start, he laughed at me and said “On ne sait pas” – literally “one does not know”. What a ridiculous question. When I asked him where it would be, he said, “I don't know...probably somewhere along the road.”

So, with no idea of where to go, when to be there, or how I would be getting there, I relaxed, had a cup of coffee, and then confronted my next problem. What to wear? As with most great fetes in Cameroon, there is a specific pagne (fabric) that everyone is required to buy and have made into an elaborate outfit, so we all match. On teacher's day, the school buys the pagne for all the teachers and distributes it. Naturally, I never received mine (apparently the discipline master tried to deliver it to my house over the weekend, but I was in Maroua...not that I can imagine having been able to get an outfit made with no tailor and about 48 hours notice anyway...). I kind of figured that this was a pretty normal thing to happen and there would probably be lots of people who didn't have the pagne, so I settled for one of my few shirts that isn't ridiculously stretched out from washing and a cleaner skirt.

Around ten o'clock, after many text messages sent back and forth between myself and the other two volunteers in the area (Claire in another village nearby and Liz in Mora), I had determined that now would be an appropriate time to leave and that the party would be taking place at the Place des Fetes (“Place of the Parties”...a logical venue). It had even stopped raining, although it was overcast and breezy and I was nervous to travel the 3km dirt road out of the village after a storm, as it tends to turn into a series of rivers, leaving your moto driver three options: 1) accelerate to plow through the water as quickly as possible, lifting feet high into the air to keep them out of the water and inevitably soaking the passenger; 2) crawl up to it, then crawl through it, fishtailing the entire way and teetering back and forth, giving the passenger enough time to think carefully about the chances that they will get schistosomiasis from falling into the river; and 3) the choice of most drivers – accelerate as fast as possible up to it, then jam on the breaks at the last second to fishtail slowly and terrifyingly through.

Nevertheless, I put my moto helmet under my arm, locked up my house, and set off across the market to find a moto. I have cultivated a very precise strategy for catching a moto – I stand in the middle of a public space, holding my moto helmet, until someone over the age of 15 pulls up on a moto and offers to take me where I want to go. Often it takes several tries, and I have to explain to many disappointed 12 year olds, “No, I will not go with you. You are too young.” The response is usually, “But you have a helmet! It will be fine!” Very comforting. Once you find a driver who looks as though he has at least hit puberty, the haggling begins. The real price to Mora is 1000 CFA (about two US dollars). Living in the village and often traveling back and forth to Mora, I refuse to pay more than this, as a matter of principle more than anything else. Like time, another thing Americans believe in is prices. Things should be one price, the price should be fair, it shouldn't change if you have more money or white skin. This particular principle is so ingrained in me that I will go so far as to waste precious American time rather than pay the extra 200 CFA (approximately 40 cents) that the driver is asking. I am an excellent haggler and can wait out even the most persistent local teenager trying to overcharge me, much to their surprise. I am getting better at remembering after these encounters that I am not actually angry...whereas when Americans get mad, they tend to stay mad (I am also an excellent grudge holder), Cameroonians will shout in each others' faces one minute and the next laugh and shake hands. I am trying to learn how to do this.

After getting a fair price I climbed on the back of a moto and spent the next half hour cruising through the Mandara mountain region of Cameroon. I used to be terrified of motos...but up here I love it. The scenery is outrageously beautiful – completely flat and then all of a sudden a series of mountains that look like giant rocks just happened to fall out of the sky in neat piles. You see all kinds of people – kids swimming in ponds, people working in fields, women carrying huge buckets on their heads...and then there's the breeze. The breeze is amazing.

I arrived at Place des Fetes around 10:30 and set about looking for my colleagues and the two other white people I expected to be there. Literally everyone was dressed in green or beige Teacher's Day pagne...except for some grands (important people) who were wearing elaborate robes and caps, a few women in elaborate ensembles and high heeled shoes...and me. I ran into some people from my school, then Liz, then finally Claire showed up. A lot of mingling ensued – the Place des Fetes was basically a giant crowd of several hundred teachers milling around in matching outfits in front of a podium where people took turns making muffled speeches. After many introductions were made (“Ah! These are your white sisters!”), many awkward pictures were taken, and many questions were asked about why I wasn't wearing Teacher's Day pagne, we asked permission of our principals to leave for a few minutes under the guise of dropping my bag off at Liz's house. “But the parade starts in 15 minutes! You will miss the parade!” Absolutely sure that we would not miss the parade (15 minutes in Cameroon can often last three hours), I set off with my white sisters, grateful for an excuse – however brief – to escape the endless confusion and awkward social encounters. I always struggle with events like this in the U.S. – I hate mingling and crowds and pomp. Somehow none of these things become more bearable 6500 miles away where everyone except me knows each other, is speaking the same language, and is dressed in the same outfit.

It was nice to have a chance to relax for a few minutes, speak some American English, and reflect on the hilariousness of our mornings up to this point. We dropped our stuff off and walked back to find much to our surprise that the parade actually was starting. It was news to me that not only was there to be a parade, but I was going to be in it. The staff of each school present was to walk two by two across the Place des Fetes, carrying signs and Cameroonian flags. The schools had begun lining up, and the three of us were swept in separate directions as we searched for our respective schools. Before parting, Claire handed me an extra piece of Teacher's Day pagne taken from her ensemble, and I hastily created a traditional Cameroonian wrap skirt. My colleagues applauded, and I prayed that it wouldn't fall right off as I paraded in front of the grands of Mora.

In addition to our rigid sense of time, another idea built forcefully into every American is the concept of the line. As children we line up to go into school, to go out for recess, to get on the bus or buy lunch. As adults we wait in line at stores and in cars on our way to work. As impatient as we might be while waiting, we believe firmly that what is fair and logical is for everyone to wait their turn. Cameroonians do not have this same idea...this was one of the most shocking things to a lot of us upon our arrival in country. Going up to buy lunch at the Peace Corps house, the American trainees waited patiently in line, shocked to see a mob of our Cameroonian trainers at the front, pushing their way through. The same thing occurred at bars, stores, bus stations...even the post office. In Cameroon you have to learn to push your way through, to jam your arm in just the right open space to call attention to yourself, then to angle your body precisely to block anyone else from ducking in front of you. Once you get over the American voice in your head shouting “how rude!”, it can be fun. It is certainly always a fascinating social spectacle, and the anthropologist in me tries to sort out the unspoken rules for who goes where and who gets service when.

Learning what I have about Cameroonian lines, I should have been more prepared for the complete pandemonium of several hundred Cameroonians trying to form a parade. I will let you imagine for yourselves. Finally, the dozen or so members of the staff of my high school assembled and I was thrust to the front, walking directly behind the principal...something I recognized as a sign of respect and pride...but which ended up feeling (and for what would not be the only time that day) more like an exhibition...”Hey! Check out our white person!” So there I was, at the front of a parade, wearing inappropriate clothing, having no idea where I was going, people taking my picture from all sides, and, naturally, marching out of step (“Why are they shouting 'gauche gauche gauche' oh shit left foot left foot...”). I cannot help but encourage the stereotype that white people have no rhythm. I try to explain this to Cameroonians as an excuse for my ridiculous dancing (and, now, marching), but they haven't heard it before and I usually end up coming off as even more ridiculous.

Finally all the schools have proceeded past the grands and the milling about and awkward picture taking resumes. The crowd begins to disperse, and after being told repeatedly by my principal that I was to go to the “Maison de Femme” at 1 o'clock...and after repeatedly asking “What woman's house?” then realizing that he was referring to the Women's Centre in Mora, I was able to depart with Liz and Claire to Mora's delightful bakery, where we drank cold sodas and ate delicious meatball sandwiches, then caught motos to the Maison de Femme, having no idea what we were supposed to do there.

We walked in and saw teachers sitting in lawn chairs in the courtyard...being teachers ourselves, we figured this was probably the correct thing to be doing, and sat down too. A short while later we were beckoned by an authoritative man into a reception room clearly for the grands. Our principals were in there, and a fancy table was set up in the front for the sous-prefet and other V.I.P.s. Special treatment makes me acutely uncomfortable, especially when it is completely undeserved, and so I sat there awkwardly with the other volunteers, drinking Fanta and feeling very out of place. Yes, I am American, but I am a teacher like the others outside. In fact, I am not like the other teachers outside – I am pretty sure that I am less qualified and have less experience than most of them. I am also less well-dressed. In short, I have no business sitting in this room with important people.

Well, apparently someone else thought so too, because after a couple short speeches from the V.I.P.s, when everyone got up for the special V.I.P. Buffet, another authoritative man came up to us and said “please, come with me,” and led us out of the V.I.P. reception hall, back to the normal person courtyard...and to the front of the normal people buffet line, forcing us to cut in front of all our hungry colleagues. They were not pleased, and the teacher behind me insisted on standing practically on top of me as we made our way down the line, then nearly shoved me out of the way to get at a piece of meat. Very professional.

Feeling more than a little bit annoyed, we tried to find some empty seats, but naturally they had all filled while we were sitting with the grands. Someone saw us looking confused and told us to take the seats of people in line. With no other choice, we did, but were now feeling pretty worn out and frustrated. We hadn't wanted to sit in the V.I.P. room in the first place, and after being made to sit there we were kicked out, forced to cut people in line and then steal their seats. It was at this point that I looked down and realized the Teacher's Day skirt I had hastily created before the parade that morning was, in fact, inside out. Awesome.

After eating and drinking and making more small talk (in English and French) with the teachers we were sitting with (“No we do not have Teacher's Day in America...yes I know that it is international, I do not know why we do not celebrate it...”), it finally seemed like an appropriate time to leave and as we walked back into town the frustration melted away and we began to laugh about the ridiculousness of our day...to the point where I was doubled over with laughter on the side of the road in my inside-out skirt. Thinking about how professional I must appear at this moment, I began laughing harder.

Back in town I caught a moto back to the village...and although the driver looked older and responsible, it turns out he had a death wish and cruised home at high speeds, playing chicken with bush taxis on the wrong side of the road, hitting potholes so hard I was temporarily airborne, forcing me to shout multiple times “Hey! Doucement! Ca c'est dangereux!” to which he would nod, smile, turn around and give me a thumbs up. To be fair, he was very friendly, and I did make it home in record time...Around 5pm I shooed the goats off my stoop and walked through the door into my compound, exhausted and relieved to be back at my quiet, beautiful house. I took my shoes off, sat down on my couch, and once again began to laugh...