July 7, 2006
We’re getting ready to move. We have the keys to our new apartment and we’re ready to go. We even bought a refrigerator, stove, bed and dining table this week. In Yaoundé, even when you rent, you’ve got to buy your appliances.
But that was easy. The real adventure was buying the bed and dining table. It certainly wasn’t like going to Ikea. We bought both pieces of furniture at local woodcarving shops near the Mokolo market, Yaoundé’s biggest outdoor market. We saw the work being done right in front of us and the showrooms were the streets around the market. I’ve never been rained on shopping for furniture before. Each bed was put on wood planks because the bed district (each piece of furniture is built by neighborhood. I’ll be going to the desk district next week.) has dirt – actually mud – roads. The table district is built into the side of the hill, with the workshops down-slope and the finished products on the street. So the tables and chairs were also supported on wood planks, but this was to prevent them sliding down the hill.
We went accompanied by Mamadou, one of CRS’s drivers and a man who is known to get things done. (As an aside, when changing money in the developing world, if a local you trust says he knows a guy who will take less of a commission than the bank, go with the guy. Also, do your best to find the good Muslim moneychangers. They’re far less likely to cheat you.)
Anyway, Mamadou was our negotiator. He’s the guy who picked us up from the airport when we arrived, and is just generally fun. Both Bec and I have soft spots in our hearts for him. He handled everything for us, except paying. He knew everyone in the bed district and is a masterful negotiator. His style is a sort of, “Hey, it’s me, Mamadou. That’s not your real price is it? That’s disappointing.”
And it works. We got a bed with side tables built and varnished right in front of us for less than we had expected to pay. Getting it back to our new apartment was tough. We were three people in a little Toyota RAV-4, plus a bed that had been taken apart. The bed took up the entire trunk, and the back seats needed to be folded down, so Rebecca and I had to share the front passenger seat. It’s a good thing I like her a whole lot, she’s small and she smells lovely. I don’t think you’d get far driving around like that in New York.
But Bec and I sharing a seat in the front of a small SUV, as amusing as that was, was nothing compared to getting the fridge, stove, giant fan, table and chairs delivered to our apartment on the back of a standard-sized pick-up. Jean-Pierre, CRS Cameroon’s chief of transport and a man who carries himself with great authority, accompanied us on this trip. He drove us to the appliance store, where we witnessed his negotiating style. His is, basically, “I’m not going to pay that. This is what I’m going to pay.”
And it works, too. The guy with the truck – in the developing world deliveries are always done by that random guy with a truck – wanted us to pay 7,000 francs, around $14, for him to get the stuff to the apartment. The Indian guy at the appliance store started yelling that we shouldn’t have to pay that, was the guy with the truck overcharging us because we’re foreigners, you can’t do that to my customers, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, JP simply said we’re paying 4,000. And that was it.
We also had to enlist someone from the appliance store to come with us because we were picking up our table and chairs afterwards. This guy was forced to stand in the truck’s bed, holding on to the tabletop as they thundered over water-filled potholes and up steep hills. Everything else was tied down, but the tabletop extended out the back of the truck. To top it off, the guy had to help us get the stuff up the stairs, including the fridge and the stove, which he carried up by himself.
The truck would sometimes get a bit ahead of us, at which point Bec would say nervously from the back seat, “Where’d our furniture go?” But it was easy to spot the truck on the way back, between the fridge standing tall and the guy holding on for dear life. Remember when I described the luggage-filled zippy black Peugeot, with Steve Stich saying the Joads didn’t drive a zippy black Peugeot. Well, they might have driven this truck when they escaped Oklahoma for California. And the pile of stuff did look like something out of The Grapes of Wrath.
But everything is there and we begin the official moving process tomorrow. We’ll bring over our mattress and our clothes, as well as other personal stuff like computers, movies and music. Next week, we’ll borrow the living room furniture we’ve got now and then buy some new stuff as we settle in. Bec’s really ready to get into a new place. And while I will now have to pay to read about hockey online, I am too. And I’m glad Bec will have some distance from her office.
I hope everyone had a good Fourth of July. We went to a party at the US Embassy, which required me to wear a sport jacket. Others were there in suits. And it was in the middle of the afternoon, so no fireworks. Frankly, I was enraged at not being able to wear shorts and a T-shirt to an Independence Day barbecue. What kind of Commie Fourth requires proper clothing? But my rage over the dress code was assuaged when the American ambassador said that getting dressed up for that day went against American instincts in his speech. As long as he acknowledged our great sacrifice….
But still no fireworks. Stinky.
A few days before, we went to Canada Day at the Canadian High Commissioner’s house. There was only one guy in a Team Canada hockey jersey. I immediately screamed, “That’s awesome!” and went to introduce myself. I also managed to find someone to play hockey with. He only lives about five hours away, but you’ve got to make sacrifices. It’ll be street hockey, but no rollerblades because the roads in Bamenda aren’t smooth enough. I’m going to go when he does a hockey clinic for missionary kids, as well as some Cameroonians. “Invariably, the Cameroonian kids start using their feet,” Walter told me.
We’re getting ready to move. We have the keys to our new apartment and we’re ready to go. We even bought a refrigerator, stove, bed and dining table this week. In Yaoundé, even when you rent, you’ve got to buy your appliances.
But that was easy. The real adventure was buying the bed and dining table. It certainly wasn’t like going to Ikea. We bought both pieces of furniture at local woodcarving shops near the Mokolo market, Yaoundé’s biggest outdoor market. We saw the work being done right in front of us and the showrooms were the streets around the market. I’ve never been rained on shopping for furniture before. Each bed was put on wood planks because the bed district (each piece of furniture is built by neighborhood. I’ll be going to the desk district next week.) has dirt – actually mud – roads. The table district is built into the side of the hill, with the workshops down-slope and the finished products on the street. So the tables and chairs were also supported on wood planks, but this was to prevent them sliding down the hill.
We went accompanied by Mamadou, one of CRS’s drivers and a man who is known to get things done. (As an aside, when changing money in the developing world, if a local you trust says he knows a guy who will take less of a commission than the bank, go with the guy. Also, do your best to find the good Muslim moneychangers. They’re far less likely to cheat you.)
Anyway, Mamadou was our negotiator. He’s the guy who picked us up from the airport when we arrived, and is just generally fun. Both Bec and I have soft spots in our hearts for him. He handled everything for us, except paying. He knew everyone in the bed district and is a masterful negotiator. His style is a sort of, “Hey, it’s me, Mamadou. That’s not your real price is it? That’s disappointing.”
And it works. We got a bed with side tables built and varnished right in front of us for less than we had expected to pay. Getting it back to our new apartment was tough. We were three people in a little Toyota RAV-4, plus a bed that had been taken apart. The bed took up the entire trunk, and the back seats needed to be folded down, so Rebecca and I had to share the front passenger seat. It’s a good thing I like her a whole lot, she’s small and she smells lovely. I don’t think you’d get far driving around like that in New York.
But Bec and I sharing a seat in the front of a small SUV, as amusing as that was, was nothing compared to getting the fridge, stove, giant fan, table and chairs delivered to our apartment on the back of a standard-sized pick-up. Jean-Pierre, CRS Cameroon’s chief of transport and a man who carries himself with great authority, accompanied us on this trip. He drove us to the appliance store, where we witnessed his negotiating style. His is, basically, “I’m not going to pay that. This is what I’m going to pay.”
And it works, too. The guy with the truck – in the developing world deliveries are always done by that random guy with a truck – wanted us to pay 7,000 francs, around $14, for him to get the stuff to the apartment. The Indian guy at the appliance store started yelling that we shouldn’t have to pay that, was the guy with the truck overcharging us because we’re foreigners, you can’t do that to my customers, blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, JP simply said we’re paying 4,000. And that was it.
We also had to enlist someone from the appliance store to come with us because we were picking up our table and chairs afterwards. This guy was forced to stand in the truck’s bed, holding on to the tabletop as they thundered over water-filled potholes and up steep hills. Everything else was tied down, but the tabletop extended out the back of the truck. To top it off, the guy had to help us get the stuff up the stairs, including the fridge and the stove, which he carried up by himself.
The truck would sometimes get a bit ahead of us, at which point Bec would say nervously from the back seat, “Where’d our furniture go?” But it was easy to spot the truck on the way back, between the fridge standing tall and the guy holding on for dear life. Remember when I described the luggage-filled zippy black Peugeot, with Steve Stich saying the Joads didn’t drive a zippy black Peugeot. Well, they might have driven this truck when they escaped Oklahoma for California. And the pile of stuff did look like something out of The Grapes of Wrath.
But everything is there and we begin the official moving process tomorrow. We’ll bring over our mattress and our clothes, as well as other personal stuff like computers, movies and music. Next week, we’ll borrow the living room furniture we’ve got now and then buy some new stuff as we settle in. Bec’s really ready to get into a new place. And while I will now have to pay to read about hockey online, I am too. And I’m glad Bec will have some distance from her office.
I hope everyone had a good Fourth of July. We went to a party at the US Embassy, which required me to wear a sport jacket. Others were there in suits. And it was in the middle of the afternoon, so no fireworks. Frankly, I was enraged at not being able to wear shorts and a T-shirt to an Independence Day barbecue. What kind of Commie Fourth requires proper clothing? But my rage over the dress code was assuaged when the American ambassador said that getting dressed up for that day went against American instincts in his speech. As long as he acknowledged our great sacrifice….
But still no fireworks. Stinky.
A few days before, we went to Canada Day at the Canadian High Commissioner’s house. There was only one guy in a Team Canada hockey jersey. I immediately screamed, “That’s awesome!” and went to introduce myself. I also managed to find someone to play hockey with. He only lives about five hours away, but you’ve got to make sacrifices. It’ll be street hockey, but no rollerblades because the roads in Bamenda aren’t smooth enough. I’m going to go when he does a hockey clinic for missionary kids, as well as some Cameroonians. “Invariably, the Cameroonian kids start using their feet,” Walter told me.
posted by Evan Weinberger at 8:08 AM
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