Jane, Polly and Gwen make supper

Each day when I turn up for my breakfast I open the front door and walk straight in to a smart sitting room with television, sofas and a coffee table and I take off my shoes at the door so that the dust does not get onto the rug. My omelette, bread, fresh pineapple and Ndu tea are served to me in that room and until Jane suggested I learnt a little about the domestic life of Cameroonian women, I had no idea about the supreme effort it took her each morning to prepare this meal. Until then I did not understand how the house worked, apart form knowing that the hole-in-the-ground toilet was in an outhouse at the very back of the house.

Jane, and Mr. Patrick share their one storey house with their two young sons and Gwen, a young homeless widow. Houses are clustered together in a ‘compound’ that sometimes share outbuildings – toilets, water taps and kitchens. Their house is in a compound of 4 other houses. The actual house has two bedrooms, another room that they live and eat in and a room called a kitchen. The room that they call the kitchen is just an empty room with a concrete floor and a gas cooker in the corner. The cooker is very rarely used as the gas cylinders are too expensive. There are no cupboards, work surfaces and no running water. Tins of food are stored on the floor, in tins, plastic pots and thermos boxes.

So when Gwen and Jane suggested I help them to prepare the evening meal I was delighted t be invited into the secret part of the house the woman’s world in fact.

First I was given ‘a loin’ - a piece of African fabric, to tie round my waist as an apron. Then I collected my low woman’s stool from the outhouse and took it into what Gwen and Jane call the kitchen. The three of us sat round a wood fire surrounded by pots and pans and tin trays of raw ingredients, yams, spices, garlic, onions peppers, tomatoes, rice, carrots and fresh fruits.

My first job was to cu wood with a small sharp knife. Then, up off the stool to wash my hands at the tap in the garden. We chopped all the vegetables on our lap, with no chopping board. Believe me, peeling and dicing a fresh pineapple, holding it by the stalk in the left hand and chopping it with a knife in the right hand is a skill in itself. Gwen and Jane take 3 minutes to dice. I gave up after 5 minutes and two cut fingers. The yams were even more difficult as they are tough skinned and huge.

We made two dishes, pepper soup and tomato rice. Onion, and garlic was fried in a huge pot and spices added. The spices, garlic and fresh ginger were ground between two stones , the tomatoes chopped on our laps, the fire kept stoked and pots moved on and off the fire if the food was cooking too quickly. I fetched water for washing hands, washing food and washing pots and covered the outside of each pot with a mixture of old ash from the fire mixed with water. This is made into a paste and smeared on to prevent the pot from being covered in black smoke which then is hard to wash off and makes tea towels or anything it comes into contact with, filthy. Now that’s a handy hint for all you campers out there. Its messy but effective.

We were joined periodically by an older woman from an adjoining house, who wanted to watch me struggle. I even had a lesson in carrying water on my head.

It took 2 1/2 hours to make the food and by that time I was so exhausted I just wanted sleep. But, it was delicious and as the guest, I left for home without having to wash up in the dark.

The fon's Wives

Yesterday SG and the mayor arranged for me to visit the fon of Ndu. We had not called round earlier as the mayor had been out 

of town. Apparently, this is a special occasion and SG,MT the mayor and others wanted to come along. I think they wanted to hear me address the fon and tell him about my work here and, they wanted to watch as I greeted him formally.

So, after finishing another lively focus group, George the town planner and I went to a bar, with sub-chiefs from the meeting, to wait for George the driver. The four sub-chiefs of Ndu are deputy Fons, and will be at the palace when well turn up.

I have told you about waiting for George and today was no exception. We sat and drank,  and as Town Planner  George became more animated, we discussed is plans for developing Ndu town centre.

Two hours later we phoned driver  George. He was in the market looking for my Manjuh hat, collecting palm wine and rounding up all the people who wanted to come with us.

One more hour later he pulled up with Felix, Caroline, Ernestine, Kevin, MT and SG. The mayor pulled up in his jeep, with Genesis the driver. We all piled back into the bar to discuss hats and wine and the excitement of the day - should I greet the Fon in the traditional way, at the beginning of the meeting, or should we first introduce ourselves and explain that I have been initiated, then greet him? Half an hour later, with my hat on my head, we set off for the 20 minute drive to the Fon's palace with an agreement to greet him after being introduced.

Every village has a Palace and the entrance is usually marked by large corrugated iron turrets. Inside the entrance was not as I expected. I had an image of the wonderful Indian forts with every room beautifully proportioned to allow for maximum view and shelter from the sun. How wrong I was.

A huge expanse of dry and dusty parkland was surrounded by crumbling modern brick buildings. Children and women filled the space, chatting, playing, sleeping and watching me.

We were all shown into a dark room full of benches and a table was brought in so that we could display our drinks and carry on boozing. We had to wait.... No surprise there then. The Fon was busy hearing a land dispute in his tribal court and would be about an hour, which gave us all time to drink some more beer.

Eventually we were shown into the meeting room and after being introduced by the mayor, I had to speak to the Fon and tell him about our project. He listened, I greeted him as Manjuh, everyone smiled and then, because of my title, I was invited to meet the Fon's wives in the women's quarters.

Fons are polygamous. They have to take on all their fathers wives and then can add to them too. The Fon of Ndu has 29 wives and has lost count on the children front but, looking around, I would say there must be in excess of 75.

There was great excitement in the women quarter. The men had to sit in the car and i was accompanied by Caroline and Ernestine and the Queen of Ndu, who is, if I understand right, one of the Fons daughters, a beautiful woman of about 25.

I had to greet all the wives. They live a squalled compound of red brick huts with shared 'kitchens' and sleeping areas. There is no electricity, little furniture and home comforts at all. 

In honour of my visit it was agreed that they would perform a little dance and we were shown into another hut whilst the band gathered. Around 20 wives joined in and we danced and laughed together for 10 minutes before joining the men in the car park. They were bored and needed another beer. So, with Genesis at the wheel, I left the women to their merry-making, dropped the boys off at another bar and went back to my room for a moment's peace and quiet before my walk to Jane's for supper.

Another full day in Ndu ends and my head is fit to explode with new experiences.

Kevin who brings me hot water daily

Caroline and Ernestine on a girls day out

Caroline and Ernestine are administrative assistants at the council and have taken me under their wing for shopping, outings and general African fashion advice. They teach me how to tie my head wrap and barter for my pineapples, paw paws, papaya and passion fruit so that I not have to pay 'skin tax'.

My daily route to breakfast

Waiting for George

Organising my day is not possible. or rather, I do attempt do do it but have never got to the end of it having achived all I set out to do. For the first few days i found it intensely frustrating but now I just accept that the day will unfold how it unfolds and some new knowldge is always gained. I make sure that if a meeting has bee set up, we get there on time and belive me, that is an achievement here. Those of my council collegues who have traveled to the UK  all comment on how organised and efficient our working day is and how they would love to work like that but, it is 'out of their control'. They work in 'black-man time' which bears no resemblane to my watch at all. 

A typical day in Ndu starts at 5.30am when I am woken by the sound of Kevin, my houseboy, chopping wood and lighting a fire to boil water for my morning wash. Kevin and I have made a pact to work in ‘white man time’, which means that when the radio announces it is 6.30am, my water is hot, in a bucket and in the washroom. I then leave at 7.15am for a 25 minute walk to Jane-Frances’s house for breakfast.

From here onwards I lose a little control. Breakfast is planned for 7.45am, then George the driver is supposed to pick me up to take me the 4 miles to my office. Waiting for George is a full time occupation here. He may come within 30 minutes of the agreed time or, he may not come at all. But that is OK because my office keys may or may not be at the office. The administrative staff have the bunch of keys and as there is not a powerful enough current to operate the computers, they may be in town, where computers function.

I have discovered that my best plan is to wait at a place where I can work. So, I agree to meet George either in the internet cafe or I walk all the way home and wait and work at the desk in my room. But, on my way home I often get a telephone cal from SG MT or the mayor, arranging to pick me up to take me to some unplanned destination. I may be taken to hear a choir competition, to meet a family member, or to a dressmakers to arrange my outfit for women’s day. I have also been taken to the market to see the slaughterhouse – which is simply an area of the open market where live animals turn into meat in front of everyone present.

Today George took me 30 miles down the road to Ntumbaw for a meeting with councillors and local people. It is a dirt track and when I say dirt… I mean dirt. I have finally realised that women here wear headscarves, not as a fashion statement but to protect their hair from the dust.

So we set off and George dropped me at 1.30pm with the promise to pick me up at 3pm. I was expected at my friend’s house at 4pm as she was going to give me a Cameroonian cooking lesson, preparing supper for the family.

The meeting went very well. Three Fons and over 60 others turned up. I greeted the Fons in the traditional way, now I have been initiated. As usual this caused great mirth from the locals, who have never before seen a ‘white-man’ do this.

Just as we started the meeting the rains fell. These were the first rains for six months and I have never seen rain fall like this. We were all packed into a grain warehouse which had a tin roof. The noise was so deafening that the meeting had to be postponed for 90 minutes because no one could hear anything but the sound of water crashing on sheet metal.

So, once the meeting had ended and everyone had had their picture taken with me, it was 4pm. George had not turned up and there was no mobile phone signal to call him. I thought that I would miss my cooking lesson, when my colleague and interpreter, Felix, offered me a lift on his motorbike.

This journey would have been impossible if the rain had not fallen. He roads are so covered in red dust that I would have been unrecognisable after 30 minutes on the back of a bike. But, the dust had settled and the air smelt so fresh.

We were 3 miles outside Ndu when George pulled alongside me in the jeep. I declined his offer of a lift and was dropped off at Jane’s house in time to cook pepper soup for 6 on a wood fire.

International Womens Day

Its 7am and am off to collect my new girlfriends so that we can march through the streets. I will be traveling for 4 days after that so will not be blogging until I find technology again - in 5 days time.

The grandstand is being cleaned and music is blasing out already. I am all dressed up in my 'uniform' complete with head wrap. Pictures later!