Hanging with the chief

My village is relatively small, and is not an official “arrondissement” (township?) of the government. Instead of our own police station, we have a traditional chief, who is responsible for solving problems and maintaining order in the village (although for bigger problems, he does refer to the government-appointed prefet (similar to a mayor) and gendarmes in the nearby town). Anything of significance that happens in the village requires the chief's approval, which makes him a pretty important ally if you want to get anything done (or even simply live in) the village. The chief lives in a large compound on the edge of the market with his four wives (each of whom has her own house) and a large quantity of children, varying from babies and toddlers all the way up to teenagers (I'm not actually sure how many are his; it seems likely that at least some are nieces, nephews, or other relations – in Cameroon, it's normal for people to send their children to stay with wealthier family members). I arrived at the chief's compound for the first time last August on the back of the bursar's motorcycle, armed with a letter from Peace Corps explaining who I was and what I would be doing in his village for the next two years. I was replacing a volunteer, so obviously the chief knew about Peace Corps and approved of having a volunteer in his village, but I couldn't help but feel incredibly nervous as I climbed off the moto and followed the bursar inside. Every day in Cameroon, there are tons of opportunities for a nasara (white person) such as myself to commit faux-pas, but here in the compound of this very important traditional figure the possibilities for embarrassing myself seemed limitless, and it seemed certain that I would be unable to make it through this visit without doing something incredibly inappropriate and/or offensive. I decided to try to do exactly what the bursar did, and as he slipped off his shoes before entering the compound I attempted to do the same.

“No, no, don't do that,” he said, stopping me. I looked at the pile of shoes at my feet, then back at the bursar dubiously. I was pretty sure everybody else in the compound was not wearing any shoes. “No, really, leave your shoes on,” he insisted, and so I did. Apparently not only are there a million rules I didn't understand, but these rules would then change when you were a nasara.

I followed the bursar into the compound, where about fifteen or twenty men (all of whom were barefoot, I noticed) sat on a mat on the dirt floor of a large straw hangar. The chief sat facing them from a reclining chair – a fancy version of something you might lounge in on your lawn in the summertime in America – his feet propped up, looking simultaneously powerful, intimidating, and totally relaxed. A plastic chair was immediately produced and placed next to him for me to sit in, while the bursar joined the barefoot men on the mat at his feet. The chief and I shook hands and I introduced myself, then attempted to muster up all of my shaky French to answer his questions. What was I doing here (teaching English?), had I chosen this village (well, no...Peace Corps sent me here), how long would I stay, etc. etc. I bungled my way through his questions, attempting correct answers, and ending most sentences with “I'm very happy to be here”, knowing the words for that in French and hoping that it could not possibly offend. We sat in awkward silence for a bit, and at some unseen signal, the bursar got up and we said goodbye to the chief and left.

I didn't return until this June, being busy with school, travel, and sickness, and also figuring that the chief had more important things to do than hang out with some awkward nasara. Then a volunteer who lived in Meme a few years ago came back to visit, and I accompanied her to visit the chief. Now that I was more experienced in the village and in French, this visit was less intimidating, and I realized that despite all his grandeur, the chief is actually a pretty laid-back and friendly guy. He asked me about school and why I never came to visit him (whoops) and insisted I return the next morning to make a “photo de famille” – family portrait. We did, and I promised to return to his compound after my trip to the south.

So I went down to Yaounde for a few weeks, and upon my return I went back to visit the chief as I had agreed, mentally preparing myself for the awkwardness of being the only person in the room who is a) a woman, b) sitting in a chair (besides the chief), and c) wearing shoes (except, I noticed, for the chief's guard, who lost a leg to diabetes and wears a prosthesis with a built-in shoe on it)...not to mention having white skin, speaking English (or French, really...all the conversation that happened in the compound except between me and the chief was in Mandara or maybe a little Fulfulde), etc. The chief was reclined as usual with men on a mat at his feet, but he sat up and smiled when he saw me and I shook his hand, bowed a little, and looked at the ground (a sign of respect). A plastic chair once again materialized at his side and I took a seat, smiling and attempting to remember everything I had ever learned about appearing polite and respectful in Cameroon. We shot the shit for awhile (“How was your trip?” “How have things been in village?”), and men filtered in and out of the compound, shaking hands and taking their shoes on and off. A car pulled up and two important-looking men came in. “Salaamaleikoums” went around the room and then they sat down and everybody raised their hands and began to pray. I was feeling pretty uncomfortable and even more out of place, when I realized that this was pretty much the same as every other religious situation I had ever awkwardly and accidentally found myself in, and I could employ the same coping mechanisms I used when people, for example, said grace before dinner – sit quietly with my hands in my lap and look at the floor. Perfect.

The chief proceeded to disappear inside with the newcomers, telling me he would return in a minute. We all sat around for awhile (me awkwardly in my chair, the men on their mat on the floor), some of the men chatting in Mandara, others nodding off. A few goats strolled out of the compound and off towards the market, followed by a nervous looking peacock and her baby (peacocks are status signals here, and all the important people have at least a couple). Then to my surprise a giant tortoise came ambling nonchalantly across the compound, and mentally I kicked myself for making fun of my Mandara tutor, who had attempted to teach me the word for 'turtle' a few days ago – I had laughed and immediately forgotten it, never having seen a turtle in the desert of the Extreme North. I guess you never know what vocabulary you will need when you are a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon. The chief's guard – an ancient, toothless man with diabetes, one leg, and apparently a few words of French – struck up a conversation with me. We began with the universal conversation-starter, the weather:

“It's been raining.”
“Yeah, that's good.”
“White people like the cold, don't they?”
“Yup.”

...then moved on to other topics:

“You have diabetes medicine in America, don't you?”
“Well...yeah?”
“Next time you go, you'll bring me some, right?”
“Of course.”

People are always asking you to bring them things from America, and this used to really annoy me and send me off on a typical Peace Corps tangent about how not all white people are rich, and about how I'm here to share skills and information, not just give presents, etc. but now that I'm a worn out second year volunteer, I tend to just agree to whatever they ask. I could see the guard was attempting really hard to think of things to say (“What the heck do you talk to a nasara about, anyway?”), and after the weather and diabetes, we moved on to airplanes and finally Ramadan before the chief reappeared. We hung out a bit more, and he explained to me that the two men who had arrived were important marabouts (spiritual healers?) from Mora. After about an hour of small talk and awkward silences, I figured it was about time for me to go. Unsure how to make my exit, I suddenly just blurted out:

“I'm going to the market now.”

This seemed about as good a way of doing things as any, and after discussing what I would buy at the market (“umm, food?”), the chief disappeared into his room again and came back with a can of Malta (basically a non-alcoholic beer-type product that Cameroonians love). It was Ramadan, so we couldn't eat or drink, but it's rude to send a guest away without eating or drinking, so this apparently was the compromise. I thanked him and promised to return again soon, feeling accomplished and relieved to once again have made it out of the chief's compound without doing anything terribly inappropriate.

As I hung out waiting for the chief to return from the marabouts and watching his menagerie stroll in and out of the compound, I had ample time to think about the real purpose of my visit. In linguistics, we talk about “phatic” expressions – things you say not to convey any information, but simply to open the line of communication and acknowledge that the other person exists (for example, “hello”). The purpose of my visit to the chief seemed to me purely phatic – I was going just to remind the chief that I knew he existed – and as an American who values efficiency, it was difficult for me to see why this visit should last more than five minutes. At first I became restless during awkward pauses and while the chief went off to do other business, knowing that it would be rude for me to leave but also feeling like I had accomplished the true “purpose” of my visit. But then, looking around at all the other men who were just waiting around for the chief too, I realized that just greeting the chief and acknowledging his existence wasn't enough. Sitting and waiting while the chief wasn't even there had its own purpose – to demonstrate my respect for him. Important people in Cameroon do this all the time – a prefet will announce that he will arrive to begin a ceremony at 10am, then not show up until noon, sometimes making hundreds of people wait hours in the sun, for the sole reason of seeing them demonstrate their respect for him. For Americans, with the monetary value we place on time, and also the importance we place on equality rather than hierarchy, being made to wait is one of the most difficult things to get used to...but it has the same function as addressing someone as “sir”. This again is one of the challenges and (often) joys of being a Peace Corps volunteer – learning how to redefine “purpose” and “success”.