July 17, 2006
New cultures are hard to understand.
Take, as a case in point, a concert that Rebecca, our friends Ruth and Charles and I went to on Saturday night. One of Bec’s coworkers is a recent graduate of the University of Buea, in Cameroon’s Southwest province. She was also a member of the choir, which was launching a new CD in Yaoundé this past weekend. Who says no to a free concert?
The invitation said 5:30 p.m. So we got there at 5:30 p.m. The crowd didn’t start showing up until after 6:30. At 7 a young man made an overly dramatic apology for starting late because of some unforeseen delays. Why put 5:30 if that’s when the sound crew is just starting to set up the amplifiers and keyboards?
It may be oversimplifying things, but I think that part of Africa’s development problem is that no one is ever on time. And it’s rarely 10 or 15 minutes late. Sometimes it can be days. Rebecca said in a hopeful tone maybe Africa will catch up to the rest of the world. Fortunately, I have a new outlook on life that keeps this cultural difference from driving me crazy.
The choir was fabulous. They opened their set with selections from Handel’s Messiah, I got confused about the date because we haven’t really had seasons for the past year, plus I hadn’t consulted a calendar that day. The singers mastered the notoriously difficult song structure; their voices hit every note just right. Their accents did make “breaking the bonds” sound like “breaking their bones” (Bec had misread the program and got that into all of our heads), but we knew what they meant.
Intermission did not live up to the standards set by the singers. First off, they kept playing the radio commercial for the performance – complete with the admonition that the program would start promptly at 5:30. Second, the launch party was doubling as a fundraiser. The UB choir is apparently in financial difficulties, so no problem there. The guy who apologized for the program’s tardiness got up and said that if he called someone’s name, that person was expected to publicly show their support for the choir.
“They’re gonna call on us,” I said to Rebecca, noting that our group of four were the only white people in the room.
The guy started out with some high-powered government ministers and academics, who were apparently caught off-guard by being called up to donate money. But they each came through and offered sums ranging from 25,000 francs (around $50) to 75,000 (around $150). “Are they going to call up everyone in the room?” I asked Rebecca.
When they started calling up the original “chair people” – the ministers and academics mentioned above – and demanded that these people call their friends up, I thought we were in the clear. We didn’t know anyone but the CRS people who were there, and they certainly weren’t going to get hit up. I didn’t have that kind of money on me, anyway.
I was wrong. As I sat with my head in my hands, wondering when this spectacle, which included an annoying computerized horn riff that the soundboard guy played after each sentence, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Can you give me your name?”
“I’m not giving you my name,” I said without turning around.
The solicitor seemed surprised. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to,” I said, reaching back to the glory days of childhood arguments. Apparently, “Because I don’t want to” is the argument that trumps all others in every culture, because the guy walked away.
“Well done,” Rebecca said.
I didn’t feel like we were in the clear yet. I was convinced that if the guy saw me in the crowd, he’s say something like, “I want to call up my white friend to find out how much he’s going to support us.”
“They’re going to call on me. I’m going to the bathroom until the choir comes back in.”
I bumped into Mamadou the driver in the lobby. He had stopped to watch a boxing match on the giant television during the fundraising. I explained what happened, finishing with “Qu’est-ce que c’est ca?” (Roughly translated, “what’s that all about?”)
“Bien sur! Vous etes un invitee!” (Roughly translated, “Damn right. You’re just a guest.”)
As I chatted with Mamadou, my party came out. They were leaving. But not before Rebecca said someone had gone up and said that she wasn’t going to say what she was going to give.
Karine, Bec’s coworker who invited us to the concert, stopped us on the way out. We explained that we were hungry and were sorry that we were going but we needed to eat. We did arrive at 5:30, after all. We then offered to buy a CD because we were missing the traditional African portion of the concert. They didn’t have one for sale at the official CD launch.
As we walked out, Charles said he kind of expected something like what we just witnessed to happen so he brought extra money. Why hadn’t he warned us?
But that brings me to my new way of dealing with things here. I no longer get mad. Serenity now. Hot water heater broken? Serenity now. People 90 minutes late? No longer angry. Serenity now. Being called blanc in the market? No problem. Serenity now.
“What have you done with my husband?” Rebecca asked when I told her about my new policy. I think she fears serenity now may turn into apocalypse now. But so far it’s working.
I’ve found people that I can expound on this with. It turns out that my friend Jean-Claude, an exhausting Malian radio journalist who wants me to write out the words to the Star Spangled Banner for him (I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t remember them all), is a Buddhist. There is a community of about 1,000 African Buddhists in Yaoundé. They meet in a house by the airport. There’s also a place where people to do Tai Chi from 7 to 9 in the morning. I find this terribly interesting, since I know that Peace Corps volunteers are told not to do Yoga in Cameroonian villages because they will be accused of witchcraft. ….
Our apartment is still in process. We took a trip to the market with Odelia on Saturday. First she took us to the Cameroonian equivalent of Costco. There was nothing terribly notable about Niki, except that the awnings of each of their stores have life-sized statues of The Blues Brothers, Jake dancing and Elwood on the harmonica. No one knows why.
We made a few more stops and then into giant Mokolo market, where we were greeted with stares when we offered to put what we bought into our crunchy cloth bags. One market-stall proprietor even said that he couldn’t give us the metal spoons we wanted without the plastic bag. We could then put it into our big bag, he said. Plastic bags litter the landscape here….
Rebecca let me use power tools yesterday (a drill which couldn’t get through our super-reinforced walls). “I thought she was smart?” my Mom said when we talked on the phone last night.
New cultures are hard to understand.
Take, as a case in point, a concert that Rebecca, our friends Ruth and Charles and I went to on Saturday night. One of Bec’s coworkers is a recent graduate of the University of Buea, in Cameroon’s Southwest province. She was also a member of the choir, which was launching a new CD in Yaoundé this past weekend. Who says no to a free concert?
The invitation said 5:30 p.m. So we got there at 5:30 p.m. The crowd didn’t start showing up until after 6:30. At 7 a young man made an overly dramatic apology for starting late because of some unforeseen delays. Why put 5:30 if that’s when the sound crew is just starting to set up the amplifiers and keyboards?
It may be oversimplifying things, but I think that part of Africa’s development problem is that no one is ever on time. And it’s rarely 10 or 15 minutes late. Sometimes it can be days. Rebecca said in a hopeful tone maybe Africa will catch up to the rest of the world. Fortunately, I have a new outlook on life that keeps this cultural difference from driving me crazy.
The choir was fabulous. They opened their set with selections from Handel’s Messiah, I got confused about the date because we haven’t really had seasons for the past year, plus I hadn’t consulted a calendar that day. The singers mastered the notoriously difficult song structure; their voices hit every note just right. Their accents did make “breaking the bonds” sound like “breaking their bones” (Bec had misread the program and got that into all of our heads), but we knew what they meant.
Intermission did not live up to the standards set by the singers. First off, they kept playing the radio commercial for the performance – complete with the admonition that the program would start promptly at 5:30. Second, the launch party was doubling as a fundraiser. The UB choir is apparently in financial difficulties, so no problem there. The guy who apologized for the program’s tardiness got up and said that if he called someone’s name, that person was expected to publicly show their support for the choir.
“They’re gonna call on us,” I said to Rebecca, noting that our group of four were the only white people in the room.
The guy started out with some high-powered government ministers and academics, who were apparently caught off-guard by being called up to donate money. But they each came through and offered sums ranging from 25,000 francs (around $50) to 75,000 (around $150). “Are they going to call up everyone in the room?” I asked Rebecca.
When they started calling up the original “chair people” – the ministers and academics mentioned above – and demanded that these people call their friends up, I thought we were in the clear. We didn’t know anyone but the CRS people who were there, and they certainly weren’t going to get hit up. I didn’t have that kind of money on me, anyway.
I was wrong. As I sat with my head in my hands, wondering when this spectacle, which included an annoying computerized horn riff that the soundboard guy played after each sentence, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Can you give me your name?”
“I’m not giving you my name,” I said without turning around.
The solicitor seemed surprised. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to,” I said, reaching back to the glory days of childhood arguments. Apparently, “Because I don’t want to” is the argument that trumps all others in every culture, because the guy walked away.
“Well done,” Rebecca said.
I didn’t feel like we were in the clear yet. I was convinced that if the guy saw me in the crowd, he’s say something like, “I want to call up my white friend to find out how much he’s going to support us.”
“They’re going to call on me. I’m going to the bathroom until the choir comes back in.”
I bumped into Mamadou the driver in the lobby. He had stopped to watch a boxing match on the giant television during the fundraising. I explained what happened, finishing with “Qu’est-ce que c’est ca?” (Roughly translated, “what’s that all about?”)
“Bien sur! Vous etes un invitee!” (Roughly translated, “Damn right. You’re just a guest.”)
As I chatted with Mamadou, my party came out. They were leaving. But not before Rebecca said someone had gone up and said that she wasn’t going to say what she was going to give.
Karine, Bec’s coworker who invited us to the concert, stopped us on the way out. We explained that we were hungry and were sorry that we were going but we needed to eat. We did arrive at 5:30, after all. We then offered to buy a CD because we were missing the traditional African portion of the concert. They didn’t have one for sale at the official CD launch.
As we walked out, Charles said he kind of expected something like what we just witnessed to happen so he brought extra money. Why hadn’t he warned us?
But that brings me to my new way of dealing with things here. I no longer get mad. Serenity now. Hot water heater broken? Serenity now. People 90 minutes late? No longer angry. Serenity now. Being called blanc in the market? No problem. Serenity now.
“What have you done with my husband?” Rebecca asked when I told her about my new policy. I think she fears serenity now may turn into apocalypse now. But so far it’s working.
I’ve found people that I can expound on this with. It turns out that my friend Jean-Claude, an exhausting Malian radio journalist who wants me to write out the words to the Star Spangled Banner for him (I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t remember them all), is a Buddhist. There is a community of about 1,000 African Buddhists in Yaoundé. They meet in a house by the airport. There’s also a place where people to do Tai Chi from 7 to 9 in the morning. I find this terribly interesting, since I know that Peace Corps volunteers are told not to do Yoga in Cameroonian villages because they will be accused of witchcraft. ….
Our apartment is still in process. We took a trip to the market with Odelia on Saturday. First she took us to the Cameroonian equivalent of Costco. There was nothing terribly notable about Niki, except that the awnings of each of their stores have life-sized statues of The Blues Brothers, Jake dancing and Elwood on the harmonica. No one knows why.
We made a few more stops and then into giant Mokolo market, where we were greeted with stares when we offered to put what we bought into our crunchy cloth bags. One market-stall proprietor even said that he couldn’t give us the metal spoons we wanted without the plastic bag. We could then put it into our big bag, he said. Plastic bags litter the landscape here….
Rebecca let me use power tools yesterday (a drill which couldn’t get through our super-reinforced walls). “I thought she was smart?” my Mom said when we talked on the phone last night.
posted by Evan Weinberger at 7:50 AM
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