About Time

Hey there! Long time, no see. As per usual, that’s my bad. Apologies. 

It’s been quite the busy few months here in Cameroon. I’ve started keeping track of the books I’ve read in 2017, in part just for fun and in part because of a reading challenge that my friends and I are attempting to complete, and I’ve found that I can tell how busy I’ve been based on the number of books I’ve read. For example, January was a relatively chill, 7-book month, while in February, with its fetes and exams and preparations for DEAR Day and the world map, I only barely managed to squeeze in three, one of which was a graphic novel. And then came March, where in the brief calm after Dear Day and before COS conference [COS = close of service], I managed to blow through twelve books. Basically what I’m saying is, if you need any book recommendations, I’ve got a few. Also what I’m saying is, time in Cameroon passes in weird ways. There are periods when it seems like I have no time at all, and then periods when it seems as if I have nothing but time. 

(“Also what you’re saying,” I can hear you say to me, “is that in all this time that you were reading, you didn’t once take a minute to write another blog post?” Well. If you put it that way…)

I’ve spent a lot of time in this country thinking about, well, time. I’ve been here for nearly two years now — my service is coming to a close, and it seems like all anyone was saying at COS conference was some variation of, “It doesn’t feel like it’s already been two years!” And that’s true. It’s also not true. There’s this weird time dichotomy here. Two years have flown by, and if you were to ask me, I’d say it feels like it can’t have been more than a few months. But simultaneously, there have been weeks, or even individual days, that feel like they drag on for two years on their own. It’s a strange sort of discrepancy. Some days, it feels like “Oh my god, we still have four months to go.” And other days, it feels like, “Oh my god, we only have four months to go.” I bounce back and forth between impatience and…not fear, so much as apprehension? Dismay? That word for when you’re just not quite ready to leave yet, and you're not really sure what comes next. 

I hiked Mount Cameroon right after COS conference, and while it was an incredible experience, let me tell you, there are some parts of that hike where you have plenty of time to think about the never-ending passage of time. I hiked it with two buddies of mine, and while one of them, Patrick, didn’t seem to ever tire, my other friend Daniel and I spent some time contemplating infinity while we walked, and then trudged, and then crawled our way across the beautiful and seemingly endless expanse of mountain (accumulating blisters and sore muscles every step of the way). Anyone who’s read or seen The Fault In Our Stars knows that some infinities are bigger than other infinities. We debated over whether counting footsteps to infinity, as Daniel did, counted as a bigger infinity than infinitely counting in cycles of three, as I did, or if interrupting infinity with these patterns of three even counted as an infinity at all.  We discussed the passage of time as it stood on the mountain — that is to say, that time didn’t really exist as we walked, and more than that, that it didn’t really even matter. Whether or not time was passing, and to what degree, was meaningless — we would just keep walking until we reached our destination, and that was that. (I should mention that day two of the hike was really, really long. We had a lot of time to think about this as we suffered walked.) 

This post is getting a little weird and abstract and philosophical and maybe a little nonsensical, but bear with me. I can’t promise it’ll all have a point, but I am at least going somewhere with this. 

I’ve talked with some other volunteers about this, about the weird passage of time here in Cameroon. One of the things that a lot of us seem to agree on is that Cameroon, and our time here in Cameroon, sometimes feels like it exists in isolation. While we’re here, nothing else seems to really exist. Of course, theoretically, we know of course that things are happening in the rest of the world (I get enough horrifying news updates to be very aware of this), but practically, it feels like the rest of the world is in stasis. Like when I come home, everyone will be right where I left them, doing the same things, living the same lives, nothing having changed in the past two years. That’s obviously not true — friends have gotten married and had children, they’ve graduated and moved and changed jobs and travelled and all sorts of changes have taken place, are taking place, will take place. But I’ve just sort of missed all of that, being over here. It’s like how, in Peter Pan, Neverland just sort of freezes and stops when Peter isn’t there — so does the United States just sort of…not exist, when I’m not there. It’s just this fantastical country that doesn’t quite feel real. And it was the same when I visited home this past December — I was home and the States came to life, it was a very real and tangible place — but then Cameroon suddenly felt very unreal. Two years of my life suddenly just…disappeared. What had I been doing for the last two years? Did I actually do that, or have I just made it up? Does this place exist outside of my own head? There are these two worlds I’ve lived in that function entirely separately in my mind, and it’s hard to comprehend that they can exist simultaneously. 

Maybe it’s the knowledge that my close of service date is fast approaching that’s made me so pensive; maybe it’s the start of rainy season, as I sit and write to the sound of gentle rain, a mug of coffee by my side; maybe it’s because I spent twenty minutes staring at a wall this morning without noticing what I was doing (and the fact that this is a fairly regular occurrence). Time and space are funny things. Other volunteers have often asked me some variation upon “Are you ready for COS??” and “How does it feel to be almost done with your service??” And I suppose this post is my answer to that. It feels a bit unreal, as does most everything I’ve done here. I feel like I haven’t been here nearly long enough to be already leaving; and I simultaneously feel like I’ve been here forever, and it’s time to move on. Regardless of how I feel about it, time marches on. As Hagrid so wisely told Harry at the end of Goblet of Fire, “What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does.” 

So You Want to Build a School Library? Part IV

Welcome to the fourth and final part of So You Want to Build a School Library?. We've gone from inspiration to motivation to preparation -- now it's time to see this library in action. Thanks for sticking around for the ride!

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Step 3: The Library in Action

The students can see me coming from a long way off. You could say I stand out a bit. As a result, by the time I reach the library doors, there is already a gaggle of students milling around the entrance, trying to pretend they’re not waiting for me. “Good moooorning madaaaaame,” they greet me as I approach. They hang back as I unlock the padlock and wrench the doors open. I am greeted with a spiderweb and a blast of slightly musty air as light filters into the windowless room. The students press against each other in the doorway until I’ve set my bag down next to my usual desk — for whatever reason, that seems to be the sign that they can come in. Some head straight for the shelves, while others line up to tentatively place books next to my registry book, looking on anxiously as I search for their name in the registry. No matter how many times I’ve told them they can just leave the books, they still insist on hanging about until they have visual confirmation that I’ve marked their book returned. 

“Madame, where are the Physique/Chimie books?” asks one student. (Tout les livres de science sont ici — les livres du physique/chimie sont à coté le Biologie 5e, tu a vu?)   Another calls from across the room, “Madame! Do we have Afrika Ba’a?” (Non, quelqu'un a déjà pris — mais viens ici, je vais ajouter ton nom à une liste des élèves qui  attendent ce livre). I need to label the shelves, but I’ve been promised that new shelves are on the way, so I’m hesitant to label these shelves just yet. Inevitably, the new shelves will arrive the moment the glue has dried on the old ones. 

A pair of former students approach my desk. “Madame,” they begin hesitantly, “Can you help us to translate this into English?” I look over a speech they’ve written in French. The language itself isn’t particularly difficult, and these students are bright. “I tell you what,” I tell them, “I want you to do your best to translate this into English on your own, and then I’ll check it for you. Can you do that?” They look at me like I’ve told them that their puppy died. “But, Madame,” they begin despairingly. I shake my head. “Eh eehh, I don’t have time to translate this whole thing for you. And you can do it on your own! You are both very smart. Look,” I add, “here is a French-English dictionary. You can take it outside if you want.” Their relief is tangible. 

A 5e student is browsing through the science section. She comes across a Big Book of Human Anatomy — a book intended for middle school age students to learn about anatomy and physiology. She flips through the pages, wide-eyed. “Madame,” she says to me, “you find all of this inside one person?” “Yeah, you do!” I say, laughing a little. “Wow!” she says. She skims for a few more seconds, then puts it back and moves on to a different shelf. Five minutes later, she’s back. “Madame, is this really all in one person? Are you sure?” I nod. “Yes ma’am, all of that is inside one person. Incredible, isn’t it?” She doesn’t check it out (choosing instead to check out a storybook), but she revisits the book three more times before the library closes. 

It’s quiet in the afternoon when a 3e student walks in and drops his bag on the floor next to a desk. “I am going to study my exercises,” he tells me — half questioning, half stating his intentions. That’s just fine, I tell him. He settles down with his notebook. A moment later, he looks up. It’s nice here, he says. One cannot get any work done at home — there are always other people running around, it’s loud and there is always other work to do. You can’t study at home. It’s difficult, I agree. But you’re welcome to study here as long as you like. He nods. He has since come to the library every day to work on his homework. He doesn’t speak much, but he stays until closing every day, and every day he promises he will return.

It’s nearly time for me to leave for my class. “The library will be closing in ten minutes,” I announce. “If you want to check out a book, you have five minutes to do so.” A few rush to get in line; the rest assure me they’re only looking. At closing time, I have to shoo my students out. “Madaaaame,” they complain, “Just close the doors and we’ll stay here, and you can open them when you come back!” This would clearly not work, I tell them, because this room has no lights and no windows. Also, just, no. “The books will still be there tomorrow,” I assure them. “But it’s time to go now — I need to get to class, and I’m sure you have class too.” They leave after earnestly promising me they’ll return the next day. 

I leave class two hours later, a little after 3:00. I walk home along the main road that cuts through my village, which means I see a lot of people, and a lot of people see me. There's a flour grinding shop where students often hang out in the afternoons, and today is no exception. However, unlike usual, today there is a huddle of primary school children out front, still wearing their blue and white uniforms from their day at school. I turn my head as I pass to see what they could possibly all be looking at. In the middle of the circle sits a 4e student, head down, bag by his side, a book in his lap.

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Library projects, especially building libraries from scratch, are notoriously difficult, in part due to issues of sustainability. For many volunteers, simply building the library itself takes their entire service. The books then sit in the library, untouched, for who knows how long. Building a library, obtaining books, and organising them is one thing; convincing students to use them is an entirely different matter. I was fortunate enough to have a building and books already available to me. I was worried, when I began working, that I would have to launch a huge campaign about literacy, stage elaborate activities and competitions with prizes and other treats, just to get students to step foot into the library. Much to my surprise, that has not been the case. If the library is open, the students will come. Contrary to what many Cameroonians tell me, these students want to read. They want to read stories and textbooks, picture books and magazines. In two weeks, I registered over 80 students — and those were just students who checked books out. More still came to the library just to browse, or to read or study in the library itself. 

Now, just because I don’t need to stage activities and competitions, doesn’t mean I won’t. I have all manner of things planned — reading challenges and research challenges, afternoons where students can come in an draw or paint pictures, a story writing competition, library orientation day, DEAR Day, they’re all on the map. Working in the library feels a bit like cheating — isn’t Peace Corps service supposed to be gruelling and difficult and slightly miserable, but all worth it in the end? It’s like skipping an exercise class and jumping straight to post-workout frozen yogurt. I get paid to do this. Not very much, admittedly, but I get paid to work in a different country, learn a new language or two, and encourage kids to read. And at this moment in time, I cannot think of a single thing I would rather be doing. 

So You Want to Build a School Library? Part III

Welcome to So You Want to Build a School Library? Part III! This is part three of four, so we're nearly there. I've discussed where the idea came from, and some of the factors motivating me to really dig in an focus on the library this year. Now we come at last to the actual implementation of this school library. Time to (quite literally) get our hands dirty!

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Step 2: Method to the Madness, or, pulling this library together

One problem I’m trying to address with this library project is the lack of access to books that so many Cameroonians face. At my school, these problems begin with a literal lack of access to the library. That is to say, the door handle is missing. Not broken; not stuck; literally, missing. There is none. Il n’y a pas. Handle wala. 

At this point, I am one of three people with a key to the library. Despite the lack of handle, we have a big padlock latching the doors shut which, I have discovered through much trial and error, can be used in combination with sheer brute force to pry the doors open. Problem solving, Peace Corps style. 

We’ve now managed to get into the library. Welcome — please disregard the bats in the ceiling. If you’d been here a month ago, you’d have found the floor coated with dust and bat poop an inch and a half thick, the desks in disarray, and the shelves empty, the books we did have shoved into boxes and scattered around the room. Just how that came to be, I’m not sure, but I returned after a long summer to find that some of the boxes had been placed in the centre of the room directly under a leak in the roof, rendering many of the books unreadable. Others were mouldy and damp, the pages stained and stuck together. Still more books had been infested with termites, and I picked them up only to have them fall apart in my hands. 

The weeks after my return to school were spent mostly in that dusty, mouldy room, trying to clean and sort books into piles of completely destroyed, mostly destroyed, and mostly ok. From there, I began to register the remaining books. Each book was given an individual code consisting of a letter (or letters) and four numbers, a system that I shamelessly borrowed from a brilliant volunteer in my staige. The letters corresponded to the ‘category’ of the book — M for mathematiques, HG for histoire/geographie, R for Roman, ANG for Anglais, and so on. I began numbering at 0001, and went up from there. So Biologie 5e might be labelled as SCI0025, and Germinale might be R0046. The system is simple, low-tech, and easy to replicate — all of the ingredients for a (hopefully) sustainable system of organisation. 

In addition to registering books, the other librarian and I agreed that we would start a student registry, to keep track of the students who are checking books out and have on record a means of tracking them down in the event that a book goes missing. It takes a little time, and the students are often confused when I ask if they’ve registered yet. Sometimes a student will look over his or her friends’ shoulder and translate the questions into patois, which makes me wonder how many of them can’t actually read the column titles that explain the requested information. 

A community member, a doctor at the village health centre, stops by every now and again. He likes to read, he told me, and was excited to see that the library was open. The third time he came by, he asked if he could ask the Principal for permission to donate two shelves, a table, and a chair to the library. They were not being used at the health centre and he thought they could be put to better use here, he explained as he looked at the students crammed four to a desk pouring over an informatique textbook, students sitting on the floor to flip through a GEO magazine, students pushing each other for space to examine their options on our single shelf of French fiction books. 

Beginning in September and running through the first week of October, I ran a very successful fundraising campaign to raise money to purchase books for the library. Shout out to everyone who donated -- thank you, thank you so much for your contributions! I've already begun purchasing books here in Cameroon, and we have a large shipment of books coming in any day now. 

Since mid-September, I have registered nearly 600 books. We’ve rearranged desks and shelves to fit more students into the library, and the floors are now regularly cleaned rather than habitually ignored. The shelves are organised by subject, and are generally neat (or as neat as they can be). There is a tin where students and teachers can submit requests for new acquisitions, and the chalkboard is decorated with quotes about the importance of reading and education. But most importantly, more importantly than any physical object in the room, for the first time in a long time, the library is filled with students. 

So You Want to Build a School Library? Part II

In case you missed last weeks' post, I'm working on a series of posts entitled So You Want to Build a School Library? wherein I give a behind-the-scenes glimpse of my work at the Lycee de Dibi library. Last week, I discussed the "origin story" of the library project. This week, we'll be going through the "motivation" phase -- in this case, two literacy conferences I attended in August and September. The first was a part of our larger MST conference here in Cameroon from August 22-24. The second was a two week long literacy conference in Uganda that included attendees from 11 different Peace Corps countries, and took place from August 29-September 9. Both meant to highlight the importance of literacy, and how to encourage literacy and reading culture in our countries and at our posts. 

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Step 2: Motivation. or, the months of August and September

Monday, 22 August 2016

The room is silent. Everyone’s eyes are closed as I read a description of a house from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The kind of house you never seem to come to the end of; a room with only a wardrobe and a dead bluebottle on the windowsill; rooms filled with books, stairs that lead up and down, a room with a suit of armour, walls lined with pictures. I finish, and have them open their eyes. “What sort of person do you think this house belongs to?” I ask. A counterpart raises his hand. “It belongs to an alcoholic!” he declares confidently. The room bursts into laughter. I was prepared for a lot of responses, but I admit this wasn’t one of them. “What makes you think that?” I prompt. “Because there was a blue bottle in the windowsill,” he explains. 

I ask them to draw something that they had visualised as I was reading. The room is surprisingly quiet, though the quiet is occasionally punctured with quiet bouts of chatter, hushed laughs and shaking heads as they quietly bemoan their artistic abilities. Two people share drawings based on the line about it being a house that one never seems to come to the end of — one draws a maze, and the other draws a long, never-ending hallway. “Now, we all listened to the same passage,” I say. “But we have here two drawings, based on the same passage, the same line, even — and they look completely different. Interesting, isn’t it?” 

Saturday, 27 August

It’s 7:00 in the morning, and our car leaves at 8:00. 

“Hey, Tressa,” I say. “Did you ever get your passport from Sally?” 

“No,” she says. “I had mine already from when I visited my sisters in London.” 

“Shit,” I say. 

Saturday, 27 August

“Hello, this is the captain speaking again. Our landing will be delayed due to presidential activity. …also, the radar in Nairobi has stopped working.”

Saturday, 4 September

I’m sitting in a Ugandan classroom. The room is filled to bursting — PCVs and Peace Corps staff take up about 15 desks, and around 75 Ugandan students fill the remaining 10 at the back of the room. It’s windy, and the wind whips through windows whose panes have long since shattered, if they ever had panes at all. The walls are dusty, smudged with dirt and chalk markings, the remnants of a phonics lesson from who knows when. 

A row of timid-looking primary schoolers line the front of the classroom. They stare straight ahead, or else look at their feet. Many of them are swamped in their uniforms — their little arms are swallowed in short sleeves that stop at the elbow, skirts rolled up to keep their hems at the appropriate length. Some of them stand with their chests stuck out, looking out the window as if they don’t care. But they do care — they so badly want to win. 

A man calls out: “Number 2! Your word is: accountable.” 

The students in the back collectively gasp. This one is a tough one. Number two swallows. 

“Accountable. A-C-C-O-U-N-T-A-B-L-E.” 

She takes a step back into line. 

“Attitude.” “Adorable.” The back of the class whispers, “Attitude! Attitude.” Each word is followed by a whispered chorus from the back three rows. Some trying it out themselves, translating it into patois, or guessing at definitions. Spellers can tell if they spelled the word correctly or not based on how loud the clapping is. Cheers mean it’s right; polite clapping means it’s wrong.

I watch a tiny P4 named Jaqueline spell out “affectionate” and “commendable”. She stands at maybe 4 feet tall. She’s very popular — everyone loves an underdog, and she’s beat out students 3 levels above her. It comes down to a draw between her and another student. She takes “access,” and the other takes “agility”.  They are both tripped up by “government”. It’s a close race, but tiny Jacqueline wins on “captivate” when her competitor misses “cautious”. The applause is deafening. 

Monday, September 5

Over 100 people from 11 different countries stand in a circle at a Primary Teachers Training College (PTC) in Uganda. Together, they sing a song in 4-part harmony: We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. 

Tuesday, September 6

We are visited by Ugandan author Asiimwe Deborah Kawe. She is a beautiful speaker, and I'm sure she is an equally beautiful writer. She speaks about many things, in particular the importance of telling your own story. And in telling us this, she told us one of her own childhood stories. A story about performing the ekyevugo, a traditional Western Ugandan call-and-response poem. A call-and-response poem performed exclusively by men. A poem many men fear to perform, such is its complexity, its significance -- weddings could be postponed for a poor performance. 

And she was in seventh grade. 

She is in seventh grade, and she asks her teacher to allow her to perform this poem. No, he tells her. Ask your brother to perform it. I will not teach it to you. But she persists. She refuses to accept refusal. And he relents. If you get permission from your parents, he says. If you get their permission, I will teach it to you. 

And of course, she doesn't. She smiles as she lets us in on that secret -- I knew my mother would say no, and so I didn't ask. I returned the next day, and my teacher asked me, did you get permission from your mother? And I told him, yes. Not, she adds hastily, that I am encouraging you to lie to your parents. But that is what I did. 

And so the day of the performance comes. This tenacious Ugandan girl walks on stage in traditional dress -- the crowd is silent, at first. They stare. And they wait. And they wait. And they wait. 

Her throat goes dry. All of her practice, all of her work, all of her temerity and bravery -- it is swallowed in this silence. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. The words have flown away. 

This silence, this horrible lack of sound, is punctured by the only thing worse than the quiet -- laughter. Her cheeks burn as the laughter swells around her. Desperately, she seeks her parents out in the crowd. Her mother is covering her face in shame, but her father meets her gaze. Her father meets her gaze, and slowly raises a hand. He beckons to her -- come on, now. 

This motion pulls the words from her lips. The words ring out in the hall -- and the words are met with silence. A call and response with no response. She swallows, and repeats the line. Silence. 

And then a voice. A response. Her father, again, throwing her a lifeline. She moves on to the next line, and he continues with her. Her voice grows stronger, her back straightens, her words fill the room, demanding that the audience respond, demanding the respect due to her. And in the middle of an ocean of words, a sea of sound, her father is an anchor. She is a pioneer, sailing the seas of "why not?" Why not allow girls to perform the ekyevugo? Why not allow girls, like boys, to sign up to perform without requiring their parents' permission? Why not? 

From that day on, she tells us, her words commanding the room just as they had when she was a girl, nobody at that school dared to tell another girl what she could or could not do. 

Wednesday, September 7

We sit with 5 PTC student-teachers in a circle under a mango tree. It’s hot oustide, but the tree is shady and there’s a breeze, so it’s not so bad. I have a full mug of tea — spiced, with milk — but before I can take my second sip, the wind drops a clump of pollen flowers into it. Aww, tea. 

I read The Lorax to my students — my students, who next year will have students of their own. My students, who hold the fate of tomorrow's students in their hands. Today’s lesson is on analysis, and how to teach students to apply the texts they read to the outside world. I came prepared with discussion questions, terrified as all teachers are of dead silence, but with the first question — what did you think of the Lorax? — they were off, discussing environmental degradation, making comparisons between Uganda and the world of the Once-ler, discussing the dangers of pollution and climate change. My examples, discussion questions, the article I so carefully copied out onto poster paper, the materials that I spent hours preparing are all rendered completely unnecessary, and it is wonderful. 

Thursday, 8 September

It’s raining, so we’ve been forced inside. We huddle on couches, arms tucked in against the chill. The rain drips outside and thunder grumbles in the distance as Sarah tells us, “Education is not the filling of a jar, but the handling of a fire.”

So You Want to Build a School Library? Part I

These next few posts will all be a part of a series entitled So You Want to Build a School Library? which will lead you through how and why I decided to make my school library my main focus (outside of my actual classes). Today's post will focus on the why -- the origin story of this project, if you will. Enjoy! 

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Step 1: Is this Necessary? or, the Reawakening of my Inner Die-Hard Nerd

My first week in Dibi, I visited the Proviseur’s office, to discuss the usual — who I am, where I’m from, what I’m doing here in Cameroon, etc., etc. At the end of our brief chit chat, I asked him if there was anything he would like me to focus on in Dibi, and he said the library. That was it — the library. 

This was a very broad topic. 

When I arrived in Dibi, the library was underused, understocked, and under-cleaned (which I realise isn’t a word, but I was on a roll with the under- words). The ceiling was infested with bats and wasps, there were spiderwebs everywhere, and the floor was coated with dust and bat poop at least an inch thick. It clearly didn’t get a lot of use. There was one librarian, Madame Pelnda, but her schedule was so full with her regular classes that she just didn’t have much time to work in the library. She had a list of all of the books that were theoretically in the library, and she was in the process of marking off which ones were there and which were missing. She said that once the current books were all accounted for, she would like to go about getting more books. 

Well, ok. I started spending time in the library checking off books, but to be honest, the process was tedious and time-consuming, and I couldn’t help but think there had to be a better way of accounting for the books rather than picking up a book and spending 1-5 minutes flipping through pages, trying to find a corresponding title to mark off. I spent some time organising the library as best I could, but then, I’m ashamed to admit, I got caught up with classes and other things, and I didn’t spend much time with the books. 

Then DEAR Day came around, which I’ve already posted about; and then book reports. This was the turning point, for me. 

Not even the book reports themselves, actually, although they helped. Seeing these kids get really invested in their reports — maybe it was because they wanted to get a good grade. Always possible. But I had students working with me after class, showing up at my house for extra help — this was something more than I had seen for any other projects. Most of them chose picture books or comic books— Ms. Marvel was HUGELY popular, and there were a few classics like The Berenstain Bears and Animorphs. I had them write their opinions of the book in the last paragraph, which yielded a wide range of results, from the insightful to the hilarious (from “I really liked Ms. Marvel because the main character was a girl who is Muslim”, “This book is interesting. She is intelligent and strong” and “I liked it because Ms. Marvel helped her friend Wolverine” to “I did not like this book because it is fiction, and I only like books which are about true things” and “I did not like this book because the elephant ruined the classroom, and now the students cannot go to school”). While they wrote their own book reports, I wrote my own on poster paper to give them an example of what I was looking for. At the very end, as a reward for all of their hard work, I cooked up some popcorn and I screened the movie version of my book report book: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. 

Now, for those of you who maybe don’t know me well, or didn’t know me in elementary and middle school, let me give you a bit of background of my history with Harry Potter. 

I have read the Harry Potter books probably over 50 times each. I know my Hogwarts house (Hufflepuff), I’ve made potions on Pottermore, I’ve aced every online Harry Potter quiz I can find. I’ve been to Harry Potter world and I own a Hufflepuff sweater. I even have a Harry Potter tattoo. Suffice to say, I’m pretty “into” Harry Potter. 

But, as with many fans, while we will always love Harry Potter and Star Wars and Star Trek and Lord of the Rings, we only ever get one chance to read or watch the series we love for the first time. And we only once read them for a second time. A third time, A tenth time. By the twentieth time you see a movie or read a book, the way you take it in has changed. There’s a settled, comfortable feeling to it. You can quote all of the lines, you’ve spotted all of the errors — maybe you put it on as background noise while you’re grading papers (or writing them), or you marathon it over the summer when you’re feeling nostalgic and have nothing else to do. It will always be special, of course — aren’t worn books always the best kind? — but it loses some of its sparkle. It’s not shiny and new and exciting anymore. 

So how do you bring something back? How do you make it new when it’s been old for years? As some of you with children may already know, it’s simple — you share it with someone who has never seen it before. 

Getting back to the movie, then. Before beginning the movie, we had a brief review of fiction vs. non-fiction. There is a widespread belief in magic and sorcellerie here, and I didn’t want to be kicked out of the community for encouraging sorcellerie. We established that the movie is very much fiction, and then the real magic began (I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help it). 

My students were hooked from the very start. On a normal day, it is practically impossible to get them to stay completely quiet and focused for even two minutes — but on that day, students who are usually chatty and disruptive flapped their hands and hissed at anyone who dared to interrupt the movie. Some of my more ambitious students asked for clarification of vocabulary. Some questions (“Madame, what is ‘thanks’?” “It means ‘thank you,’ it’s just shorter.”) were easier than others (“Madame, what does ‘bloody’ mean?” “Uh…it’s like ‘very’. ‘Very brilliant.’”) They didn’t always take my word for things (“Madame, what are those?” “They’re called goblins. They work at the bank.” “But they’re not real?” “Well, goblins aren’t, but they are played by real people.” “Madame, no they aren’t.” “Yes, they are! Real people wearing makeup.” “But madame, they are so small! Madame, you are sure those are real people? No, madame. They must be children.” “I am really very sure they are fully-grown adult people.”)

But the best part was watching their reactions. One girl cried out (walaay!) when the snake escaped its cage. They pointed and whispered at the owls flittering around Number 4, and Dudley’s tail was as hilarious to them as it was horrifying. The two girls in the front row clutched each others’ arms as Harry, Ron and Hermione fought the mountain troll, just as I remember clutching onto my mother during the same scene when I was younger. They whispered about the patourou professor (patourou meaning cat in Fulfulde), and held their breath during the Quidditch match, gasping out loud when Harry nearly falls off of his bucking broomstick. There were cries of shock when Quirrell revealed Voldemort on the back of his head, and laughs of triumph when Gryffindor won the House Cup. 

I realise this is starting to feel very long and tangential, so I’ll try to wrap it up. In showing this movie I was able, through my students, to see Harry Potter through a fresh pair of eyes. No longer was it just another movie I’ve seen dozens of times, a story I could tell in my sleep. Watching my students watch Harry Potter reminded me of why I have three stars tattooed on my wrist, why I still turn to this familiar favourite when I’ve had a really bad week. why I fell in love with a series about a bespectacled young wizard all those years ago. It reminded me how books can capture your imagination, can inspire and encourage passion and kindness and tolerance. And these are things that I believe everyone has a right to, and everyone should have access to. Books change lives. Words can change the world. The world is set out before these students to light aflame — books are the spark that lights the fire. 

Long Time, No See

I've accepted the fact that possibly all of the blog posts I post from here on out will begin with an apology for not having posted in so long. Apologies! It's been a while -- April to July! Shameful. I think -- I hope -- that this will be the most egregious offense, and I do promise to try to be more diligent in updating my blog in the future.

At any rate, the summer holidays have officially begun! I was expecting summertime to be a bit lazy, a bit boring -- I expected to have a lot of time to lounge around the house, catch up on some reading, visit my neighbours, write a few blog posts, and generally just chill. That...hasn't really been the case! The summer started out with a bang when my parents arrived in Cameroon. It was really lovely having them here! People have asked me if they enjoyed their visit and, this being Cameroon, I am not sure if "enjoyed" is necessarily the right word -- I suppose they enjoyed it as much as one can enjoy hard beds and no air conditioning, crowded transportation, bumpy dirt roads, and visits to the Ngaoundere hospital. But I truly enjoyed having them here, showing them around and spending time together; and even if Cameroon itself isn't  necessarily a vacation destination, I think they were still happy to see me all in one piece (well. with the glaring exception of my falling ill with malaria during their visit).

Here's where I need a handy montage scene, where we reveal what I've been up to the past few months in a couple of quick, convenient clips and then move on to the real story. After dropping my parents off at the Douala airport, I jumped on a bus to the Northwest region of Cameroon (now just imagine zooming out to see a map of Cameroon with a dotted red line tracking my movements from Douala to Bamenda, which conveniently takes about five seconds as opposed to two days). I spent a few days helping to train the incoming education volunteers (envision scenes of me confidently sharing my experiences with literacy and gender equitable teaching and giving sage advice for integration, and definitely not convincing the trainees to grab drinks with us or setting up a chart so the trainees could place bets on their post assignments).

From there, I trekked south to visit my friend Daniel in the Southwest region (cue that map again, with the dotted red line weaving its way south). I was able to visit Daniel in Ebonji and Sarah in Nyasoso -- I hadn't yet spent much time in the Southwest, so it was fun spending time with them in their respective villages, and being able to experience a bit of Cameroon's famed geographical and cultural diversity (montage cuts to: rainforests and mist-shrouded mountains, rut-filled dirt roads, Daniel and I serenading our amused and/or confused moto drivers with songs from the Hamilton soundtrack). After a few days there, Daniel and I made our way to Yaounde (cue more motos, more buses, and more serenading), where we met up with Candice (cut to a joyous reunion with some squealing and lots of hugging) and caught the train back to the Adamaoua (cue the convenient red travel lines).

Yeah, I know. Busy, busy, and we're not even halfway through June!

Towards the end of June, some of the trainees came to visit us in the Adamaoua. The object of site visits is for trainees to visit experienced volunteers and see their villages and workplaces, to get a rough idea of what the next two years will look like. Unfortunately, the trainees arrived rather later than expected (montage cuts to the trainees being stuck in a non-air conditioned train car for 6 hours longer than the typical 14 hours), and then Candice and I were obligated to duck out early in order to take the train down south in order to help out with training for a second time (well, second time for me). But we still spent an enjoyable day with the new volunteers in Ngaoundere all the same.

For those of you keeping track, we are now entering July. Time sure passes by quickly when you can squish two months into a five minute montage!

I spent about week training in Babadjou at model school (cut to me teaching English to an upper level class and completely ruining model school for every other teacher after me by giving my students candy every day), and then got stuck in Yaounde for a few days while I waited for an available spot on the train back to the Adamaoua. That meant, however, that I was in Yaounde for the 4th of July (cut to scenes of eating pizza, drinking cocktails, and rounding off the evening by watching Game of Thrones instead of fireworks). I finally made it back to my village after having been gone for the better part of a month and a half (enter my neighbours, who tell me they thought I had gone back to the States. Nope -- you can't get rid of me that easily!). I spent a relaxing week at post (scenes of me reading, playing ukulele, tormenting my cats, chatting with neighbours, eating too much popcorn) before -- surprise, surprise! - hopping BACK onto the train to Yaounde for the medical portion of MST (mid-service training).

That brings us about up to date! I've spent the last week pooping in cups, responding to chicken noises ("B-CAAAWW!"), running to and from the lab, and playing an ungodly amount of Settlers of Catan (though, not all at the same time). I had intended to write a thoughtful and expressive blog post about having helped out at training and then turned around and attended a ngonging out (the ceremony for COSing volunteers) -- but I might just cut it off here and save that for next week. This was just a quick post to say hello, and let you all know I'm still alive! We'll return to our regularly scheduled programming next week. In the meantime -- I've got a game of Catan to win.

The View from the Road

I spend a lot of time in transit. Whether walking the 20 minutes to and from school, taking a car to Ngaoundere, or riding a moto through the city, I've had plenty of time to take in the view. I've compiled for you a quick list of some of the more interesting things I've seen - so without further ado, here's a glimpse of life in Cameroon, as seen from the road.

• Two children standing on a moving cow cart, belting out the Tarzan yell to two utterly disinterested cows
• A cowherd watching over his herd with an electric guitar strapped to his front
• Snoop Dog's doppelgänger (or possibly the actual Snoop Dog, searching for his missing guitar player)
• A handful of 10-year-olds cheerfully supervising a bush fire
• Lots of cows
• So, so many cows
• Some cow sex
• A monkey, once
• Vendors with absurdly large piles of stuff on their heads
• Vendors with absurdly small piles of stuff on their heads (my personal favourites are the ones with single blocks of soap)
• A genderme who stopped an entire car to greet la blanche
• A cow that insisted on running down a restaurant alleyway, forcing the herder to chase it while the rest of the herd trotted unconcernedly down the middle of a busy road
• A woman who came THIS CLOSE to being hit by a semi truck while crossing the road - terrifying
• Goats that don't give a shit 
• A checkpoint manned by a sullen sheep (the gendermes were sharing a beer down the road)
• A semi truck flipped on its side
• An exasperated mother trying to persuade wo adorable toddlers to cross the gutter on a plank of wood (the first finally rushed across the 2-foor gap while clutching her mother's hand; the more reluctant toddler eventually crawled his way across on his hands and knees)
• A far-off house fire (the difference, I was told, is that the smoke was black. If the smoke is grey, it's just another bush fire)
• An outrageously beautiful starry sky