how’s work going?

If you think I have been holding out on what I do at work – you’re correct.  I’d promised myself that I would spend the first 3 months in “observation mode” as much as possible.  Leaning the ropes, figuring out the lay of the land.  Not doing the “go-go-go” method of starting a new “job” in a new environment.

a goofy moment at the office - Greg, Boubakari, Caroline and Abel

The three months have come and gone.

I’m still doing a lot of observing, but it’s more active and the “doing” started a while ago – carefully, slowly and strategically.

What I’ve learned so far about my partner organization is that 90% of our day-to-day activities focus on managing some 100 national volunteers, scattered all over the Far North , who work in either education planning, teaching,  or with the communes (local government).  Lucky for me, VSO assigned another international volunteer to work in this area.

My actual placement is more in strengthening the structure of the organization – i.e. internal management and office functioning – and, hopefully, one day soon, developing more health related programs. After all, this is the organization’s primary mandate. For now, my days are filled with drafting internal procedures for managing the office, wrangling with the finances and dealing with human resources issues. So in this, I cannot hide my disappointment.  Not my most enjoyable cup of tea – but a necessary one.

The upside of course is that in the coming months, we’ll be working on developing programs and strategies in health-related efforts – dealing primarily with HIV-AIDS as well as malaria prevention and other “opportunistic” diseases that wreak havoc on the population of the Extreme North.  It’s a great opportunity to be involved in developing programs from the ground up.  And as a frequent sufferer of “starters-itis”, this will be a great fit.

poking out from my "box" - it's a corner office even!

There is also a lot of leeway for me to explore ways to bring coaching-approaches into my placement.  I have quite a few things up my sleeve right now, and all will be revealed when they get off the ground.  But it’s exciting.  I’m so glad that I’m working with a partner that is open – open to change, to new ideas, to creative opportunities.  In this, we’re getting along quite well.

Another great aspect of my “work life” is that I have taken advantage of many opportunities to connect with other HIV-AIDS organizations and programs, as well as others in the area of women’s advancement.  The synergies and willingness of organizations in the sector to work together is exemplary.  In the months to come, I know I will get knee deep in many new interesting projects – no one ever says no to an extra pair of willing hands!

Much to my delight, all of this “observation mode” work has lead to a flurry of inspiration for my coaching blog.  So many new experiences, so many new ideas – I’m filled with bursting.  In that alone, and in only 3 months or so, I feel successful.  And much delighted.

me cook? not today.

It was a good plan, really.  Should have worked like a charm.

When Greg and I set out our fundraising for CUSO-VSO, we promised to do “monthly assignments” for each contributor.  One a month.  Sounded easy.  Of course, we needed a bit of time to settle in and see what we’d be able to do.

So while we were researching some of the more involved assignments, I decided that, as a story for my parents who appreciate good food, I would get a cooking lesson on traditional northern Cameroonian cooking: folere and couscous.  I would capture the whole experience in photos and anecdotes.  I asked Mairamou, one of the girls from APAD whom I also affectionately call “my little seamstress”, to teach Catherine and I one weekend while Greg was away.  Men not being allowed in Cameroonian kitchens, this seemed perfect.

Mairamou transfering the now hot shelled millet into a bag to bring home

On Saturday we ventured out to the market to get the millet.  Had it shelled in a large industrial machine in between buckets of dried corn.  I don’t know how a person with Crohn’s disease would do here since there is no such thing as cleaning out the equipment between grains.  But alas, we’re not supposed to ponder these things too profoundly.

Mairamou brought the shelled millet home (still hot from the shelling) to wash and have ground.  We missed that part, but have a pretty good idea of how milling into flour works.

“Oh,” I thought to myself, ” this is going to be a really neat assignment!”

Then Saturday night became my downfall.  “The last one standing” finally fell.  Nausea and dizziness overcame me, and I had to leave a nice party at the Mamelle Laitière with all the VSO volunteers and crawl into bed.  I made it through the night just fine.  Green and pale, sweating and shivering all at once, but all in one piece none the less.  I felt really tough.  Thought Greg would be proud.

By the time Catherine arrived in the morning, triumphant with her fresh meat purchase, I was an even worse shade of green.  Though I tried my best to stay with the process of making folere with Mairamou and Catherine, I could barely stay upright.  The nausea was getting worse.  The two of them probably had enough of me by then and I was force-fed medicine.  I promptly passed out in a gravol-induced stupor, wrapped in a fetal position around my quilting, and missed every step of the cooking process: from when the folere leaves went into the cooking pot to when the meal was beautifully served on the table.

Therefore, the monthly assignment on cooking Cameroonian food will not happen – at least not for a while.  However, Catherine’s take on the experience might just serve to wet your appetite… or at least your curiosity.

NB.  Retribution for publishing an embarrassing picture of yours truly will be sought in some form or another when least expected!

one woman’s story – LIVING with HIV & AIDS

About 12 years ago the husband of a woman – let’s call her Mary – who was from a village near Bamenda got sick and died. It was a surprise.  Mary’s husband was a well-off man, perfectly able to feed his wife and two children.  However he had a secret.

He was HIV+.

Each month he went to Yaoundé for “business”. Really, he went for treatment.  When he died he had AIDS.

Had he told his Mary?  As is too often the case here, admitting this to those around him just wasn’t an option.  The stigma – the shame – was too strong.  Not sharing his status eventually meant he passed his infection on to his wife.

Maybe he didn’t know it would happen, more likely he did.

A year after he died Mary too started to get sick.  Finally, some neighbours who knew her husband’s status took her to get tested.  The secret came out.

It was too late to prevent transmission, but it did not mean her life was over.  While at first Mary wanted to kill herself, a local organization – called IVFCAM – took charge and gave her counseling, psychosocial support, financial help and medical care.

Mary got better – both body and spirit.

Now she is LIVING with HIV.  With the help of IVFCAM she started a business, sent her children back to school, and even adopted several orphans affected (or infected) by HIV&AIDS.

Today, Mary has greater self-confidence, new skills, and is able to talk to others about her HIV+ status.

Is Mary’s life perfect?  No. She still faces stigma, discrimination and doesn’t always have access to all the services she would like.  She still has the virus inside her too.  There’s no cure for HIV&AIDS.  She will require ongoing monitoring and support.

The difference now, though is that Mary wants to live her life.  This will require strength.  She has that.  Support she has too – from IVFCAM and from other women LIVING with HIV.

Often, they come together in song.  Today was one such day.

Now, what’s the connection between VSO and this amazing woman?  VSO has an international volunteer working with IVFCAM – a volunteer who is acting as Organisational Development Advisor.

This volunteer is helping IVFCAM to strengthen their organization by working alongside staff to improve management practices, enhance transparency and – most importantly – involve their beneficiaries in deciding how services should be delivered.

VSO’s volunteer is not directly treating anyone, not directly saving anyone’s life.  Instead she is one link in a partnership that has changed the lives of many women like Mary.

packing a bag – tools to help organizations learn

Remember those bags that flew through the air on the road not taken?  While I had plenty of clothes, the plan was to pack another bag in Yaoundé.  This second bag wouldn’t be stuffed with underwear.  Instead it would be filled with tools.

My bouncy, dusty trip to Yaoundé was made not on a lark.  I was meeting with other volunteers and VSO staff to design a “harmonized” Monitoring and Evaluation (M&E) system that could be used by VSO Cameroon, and all its partners and volunteers to support organisational learning.

Huh?

Big words…  but what do they mean?

Here’s an analogy… How many of you have taken Social Science Research courses?  Would you ever have collected your data and then handed it to someone else to analyze?  If you had done this, what would you have learned? Not much.

Yet that is exactly what many organisations around the world currently do!  VSO Cameroon and most of its partners too!

You see, international development is a “business” not simply driven by the needs of communities and beneficiaries.  It is also shaped by the expectations and priorities of donors and funders – whether they be governments, foundations or private citizens.  Each wants to know what their money is buying.

They ask… What are the results?

Now, there’s nothing wrong with this.  These are questions we should all be asking of projects.  However, each funder has their own “form” that needs to be filled out, their own data sheet to submit.   Put together these sheets turn into a very large pile.

Sometimes “foreign experts” descend and evaluate programmes, take their notes away and produce voluminous reports.  Other times the local organizations – or VSO volunteers – collect data and send it off to another country for analysis.

For example, the Canadian government’s priority is accountability to its citizens. So, they want to know how much food was handed out, how many workshops run, how many people reached.  Sometimes they ask whether these changed anything on the ground … but not always.

Where’s the chance for improvement? How can you learn from experience if you never reflect on what is actually happening?

What were you trying to achieve? What worked?  What didn’t?  Most importantly … Why?    If organisations don’t seek to understand why change happens – or doesn’t – they can’t determine how to improve.  So much time is spent on filling in forms that local organisations often don’t have time for reflection.

This breeds a culture of reporting, not of learning and improving.

Our little group of M&E is working to change that.  We’re taking all the different questions, looking for common elements, and putting them back together into a few tools that make sense for partners.  We’re building in key questions that help them to identify lessons learned and figure out where the change lies.

VSO International still gets its information.  The Canadian government still gets its data on “results”.  But more importantly the partner organizations – supported by VSO volunteers –will adapt these few flexible tools to help them answer the tough “why” questions.

By reframing the many funder-driven questions, our hope is that both VSO Cameroon and its partners will have more time – and capacity –to learn from their past efforts.

After all, organizations that learn are organizations that improve.

So, we’re packing a bag full of tools that – hopefully – will satisfy everyone.  What will be learned? What will change? We’re all just need to wait and see.

the road not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,

…

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

When Robert Frost wrote “The Road Not Taken”, he wasn’t pondering pavement in Central Africa.  He didn’t choose between an 18-hour train-ride and a 2-day long bone-rattling bounce to Yaoundé.

I did.

Most sane travelers head to Yaoundé via the road oft traveled – the well-trodden and semi-comfortable train journey south from Ngaoundéré.   Needing to head back to the capital city for meetings, I could have done the same. But since when have I been sane?

Despite many wide eyes and shaking heads, my musings led me to wonder what the road not normally taken was like.  On the train one slumbers through much of the country’s ever-changing ecosystems, speeds past varied villages and misses countless roadside fruit vendors.

I wondered what was “out there”.

I didn’t think I would get my chance to drive the “long way down” but it came.  VSO was transferring a vehicle back to Yaoundé and Yussuf – the most able driver in the country – said he wouldn’t mind company.  So into the rugged Mitsubishi 4×4 I climbed.

After 6 easy hours on broken pavement, cloying dust soon painted our white vehicle a sanguine red.   Small potholes appeared in the road … then bigger ones.  Soon the potholes hid entire tanker trucks loaded with gasoline heading North.

No exaggeration.

Holes filled to the brim with shifting, semi-liquid pools of dust made us thwump down into unseen chasms. Our bags and clouds of dust soared, dancing midair in a simulated zero-gravity waltz.  Our tightly-fastened seat-belt kept us anchored to the earth.

The dust and mountains of dirt proved too much for lesser vehicles.  Surprisingly, between the craters, I sometimes spied chunks of rotten pavement.  I asked Yussuf about this.

“The road was once paved” he said … “in the 1930’s by the Germans”.

“Was German engineer drunk when he built it?” I asked.

“No, no” laughed Yussuf.  “It’s his Cameroon successors who’ve been drunk ever since!”

In the end, the worst 150 km stretch took us 6 hours to travel.  We passed countless UN vehicles and several trucks with large shrouded boxes probably laden with arms – both headed for Chad.  Eventually we emerged 100 metres from the spicy-sounding border town of Garram-Boulai -  the crossing point into the sometimes stable Central African Republic.

Back on incredibly smooth pavement, we were stopped by the gendarmes and told we needed to take an escort in our car from the BIR – Cameroon’s special forces – to protect us from “bandits” on the road.  I’m pretty sure our unarmed escort simply needed a ride back to the barracks.

1400 kilometres and 24 hours of driving later, we made it to Yaoundé where I immediately drenched myself in a scalding hot shower.  Cameroon’s red earth clung to my clothes, my teeth, my hair. Drying myself, I found dust still lodged deep in my ears.

A souvenir from a journey on the road not taken.

Barack Obama mania

It’s been a year today since inauguration.  And this is Africa.  How much of a connection do the Cameroonians have with U.S. President Barack Obama, you ask?  Just from observation, we’d say it is quite a bit.

In a totally unscientific study, we have spent the last few weeks keeping an eye out for Barrack merchandise.  Rarely does a day go by when you don’t see a young boy or girl sporting an Obama t-shirt.  They sell them at the market alongside soccer jerseys and traditional pangs.

Garage Barack Obama

One of our favourite tributes to the American president is the Garage Barack Obama, located just a block from our house.  I’ll admit, I’m entirely too shy to go ask the mechanics at the shop the reasons behind the name choice.  Honour by name association sounds like a good reason enough.  Perhaps it provides a higher confidence level in the quality of the motorcycle repairs.

Then again, there is a gasoline stand near the market that has also called itself Barack Obama.  Very much doubt that denotes more environmentally friendly gasoline.  Mind you, the gasoline is smuggled in from Nigeria on the back of bicycles, which would, in fact, lessen the carbon footprint.  Something to think about…

Pictures, posters, stickers.  They are everywhere.  It’s no wonder we’ve been greeted a few times with “Barack Obama” instead of “hello”.  Now, we ask, how are we to answer this form of greeting?

As far as a presence goes, this is pretty impressive.  A well-oiled marketing machine.  And yet one more interesting connection to the rest of the world!

from Waza with love

In contrast to the previous post, our Christmas present to ourselves were animals – live ones!  Wild and protected.

On Boxing Day we set off to Waza National Park, located north of Maroua, near Lake Chad.  Catherine, Joost, Marjolein, Greg and I, plus our trusty driver Bashir, set off in a Toyota Tercel hatchback bright and early.  Two in the front, four in the back – who cares about seat belts on a short, pothole-ridden, 4-hour drive!

We arrived in Waza by lunchtime, and immediately set off in search of wildlife.

We had seen monkeys on the way, but much to our surprise, we met with a herd of giraffes within minutes of driving in.  It was no wonder as we had a sage older gentleman as a guide – he looked as though he had done this everyday for the last 50 years. What a treasure!

So, if you are keeping track of the Tercel count – that makes it two in the front, three in the back and two in the trunk. 

Back to the giraffes.  These magnificent and graceful animals elegantly stood, necks stretched out, looking at right at us.  How small we must have seemed.  After a long time, they started to run away – in the beautiful slow motion only a giraffe could create.

If that had been it, I would have been delighted.  Giraffes for Christmas.  There is no topping that!

Oh, but there was so much more to come!  Through the rest of the afternoon we saw ostriches, gazelles, warthogs, jackals, antelopes, and a multitude of birds so beautiful we were often speechless.

a full Tercel

My personal favourite: a piecing turquoise bird that flew overhead and then landed in a tree right across from us.  Took my breath away.

Squashed in the trunk of the car, leaning out the window, sitting out the window – nothing would stop us from trying our best to catch a glimpse of our new friends.  Bouncing around in a small car on rutted dirt roads – dodging elephant poop and other obstacles – may have caused a few bruised bums and knees, but was worth it. 

Before the sun could go down, we left the park and retreated to the “campement”, a cottage-style hotel set up on a hill overlooking the park.  From the restaurant, we watched the sunset as a forest fire raged on in the “brousse” many kilometers away.

Catherine, Greg and I retreated to our cabin, taking the better part of an hour rigging up the mosquito nets we had packed, ensuring the malaria-beasties had no chance of munching on our soft Canadian flesh.  We love wildlife, just not that much.

By 6am we were back at the park gates, picking up our guide once again.  Our mission of the day: lions.

Alas, they were nowhere to be found.  Must have decided to sleep in. 

the veiled ladies of Waza: Catherine and Caroline

Mind you, the antelopes-cheval – including the elusive two headed variety – we met up with at sunrise were a very special treat.  So were the hundreds of birds flying overhead and chattering wildly from the trees above.  So were all the other herds of antelopes, gazelles and giraffes we also saw that morning 

Hearts filled with the majestic sights of these wild creatures – in their expansive, dry and truly natural environment – is simply the greatest of sights. 

Next time: elephants.  And a bigger car!

NOTE:  Check out some of Greg’s favourite picks from the Waza trip here.

from abattoir to appetizing

Where does meat come from? – ask a Canadian youngster and you might hear “from the supermarket, duhh!”

Buying meat in Canada is safe and sanitary – cellophane packaged, perfectly dyed, and meticulously preserved.  There are no flies, no blood-encrusted butcher knives, and – or so “they” tell us – definitely NO bacteria. 

A sanitary meat supply in Maroua, however, is another story.  Go to the marché abattoir (the meat market) any time after 10am and you’re more likely to see mouches than meat.  Flies cover every inch of the meat putrefying under the equatorial sun.  Us Nasarras hold our breath and speed-walk past.

Little wonder that we’ve dithered and delayed for the last two months about buying beef.  We eat it at restaurants where we can delude ourselves with visions of chefs who take their patrons’ health seriously. 

Ignorance is bliss.

Finally this weekend we caved to our carnivore curiosity.  Catherine decided to make us beef randang.  Did you know that beef randang requires fresh beef?  

Shiver.

Given we had long balked, we decided simply meandering down to the meat market was letting ourselves off too easy.  So, with trepidation Catherine and I headed straight to the city’s abattoir.  We wanted to see the cows that our meat came from and see how it was cut and carted off.  We needed to see exactly what we would eat that night. 

Caroline stayed home, firmly hanging on to her delusions.

The abattoir in Maroua is not like the stainless-steel clad, supposedly sanitized, super-sized factories of slaughter found in Canada.  Nothing fancy, just one wall, a tin roof, and scarlet-painted concrete floors to ground the structure.

Half-way hangout

That’s it.

As you would expect, blood spurts, guts spill and body parts are severed. 

Enough said. 

At the hands of the corps of highly skilled halal butchers, we witnessed 19 cows meeting their – hamburger – maker.  Wearing garments that matched the decor – and no shoes – they waded through the crimson tide.  White-gowned meat vendors closely inspected the sides of beef and selected cuts that would grace their clients’ tables.

We probably saw our own fillet come off the cow.  We can’t be sure, but the meat Catherine and Caroline picked up at 9:00am was freshly delivered and blessedly free of flies. 

You can’t ask for anything more … here

Catherine concocted a wonderfully tasty beef randang and our stomachs ached contentedly. Even our bowels agreed – knowing where our dinner came from was a healthy – albeit eye-opening – experience.

in case of fire, dial 118

FIRE! FIRE!

Voices are getting louder. The street buzzes with excitement.

FIRE! FIRE!

Sparks, flames, smoke.  The second floor balcony of the office building one door down spews thick black smoke.  Sparks from the electrical box jet out of the smoke, the sounds carry clear across the street.  The office of the Délégation de l’enseignement secondaire is on fire.

Ever curious, we file out of the office with our co-workers on this the first work day of the New Year. 

More people descend onto the street from the burning building.  Others run out and then run back in again.

5 minutes have passed. Has anyone called 118 for the fire department?

Traffic stops on the street.  Some people stand in front of the building while others check out the situation from the building’s other balconies.  People continue to go in and out.  A woman is in tears.

10 minutes have passed.  Has anyone called 118 for the fire department?

“We need to call the Délégué!” – the regional ministry official in charge of all things related to secondary education – someone provides as an answer.  Seems no one else has the authority to make the no-cost call to the fire department.

A man runs over.  “I have a fire extinguisher!”  He sets a 3 step ladder to the side of the building – about 15 feet short of the balcony from which thick black smoke billows.  After being ridiculed by the crowd he aborts the attempt – he’s not seen again for a long while.

20 minutes have passed. Has anyone called 118 for the fire department?

An SUV races up the street and stops 200 meters from the flames.  Four men in suits get out.  Aha! – the Departmental Délégué has arrived. The men all rush into the building and exit again moments later.  Some have critical documents in their hands.  The Délégué, meanwhile, rescues his precious landline telephone handset.  A hush of relief is heard and the Délégué finally calls the fire department.

35 minutes have passed.  Has anyone called the electric company to shut off the power? 

The fire truck arrives.  A half dozen firefighters from the Corps national des sapeurs pompiers jump out wearing matching dark blue mechanic-style overalls and spit-shined silver motorcycle helmets complete with meltable plastic face shields. One of them calls out as he gets things ready: “did anyone call the electric company?”  Obviously not, but they proceed anyways.

Hoses are unrolled.  Impressed, we notice a female fire fighter.  A ponytail hangs halfway down her back from below her helmet – nice synthetic braids of highly flammable extensions.  Into the building they go.  They check things out, lean over from the second and third-floor balconies, and rest their heads centimetres from the electrical wires that are mimicking New Year eve’s fireworks.

45 minutes have passed.  Has anyone shut off the power?

Two Toyota pick-up trucks arrive.  It’s the Equipes spéciales d’intervention rapides de Maroua – the police’s special forces.  Officers jump out of the tailgates.  They put out orange traffic cones and motion to people to stand back.

We retreat to the front steps of our office, far from the unarmed police officer, away from the crowd, and well away from the perilous power lines.

The fire hoses fill with water.  A hissing sound whizzes out as the flames are doused.  The smoke subsides.  The fire is probably out.

After 10 minutes, the fire department packs up its gear.  The Délégué and senior staff inspect the damage.  They go inside.  Steam still rolls off the balcony.

After 5 minutes a courier service truck arrives, manoeuvres around the fire truck, and parks just outside the front door.  They start unloading packages.  MTA guarantees on-time delivery.

60 minutes have passed.  What now?

The electrical company truck arrives.  A woman suits up and starts making her way up the pole.  Apparently, she does ALL of the electrical work on the poles in Maroua.  She climbs with cleats and only a rope harness as safety gear.  Within minutes the grid is restored and she clears out.

Reporters are on the scene.  Taking pictures, getting comments.  The crowd gets bored. People begin walking away.  Entertainment over.

We stay on the front steps of the office.  We watch, telling jokes about how many “files” – many housed 2 floors up and on the other side of the building – will be reported destroyed. Perhaps the recently delivered packages were consumed as well?  Our colleagues are full of bad corruption humour.  We hope this is not to be, but can’t help to speculate nonetheless.  We’ve started to get jaded.  We know it’s wrong to be so faithless.  We laugh that off too.

15 minutes later and the electrical company returns.  It parks in front of our office.  The pole-climbing woman’s colleague walks over and greets us warmly.  He points to the electrical box we had shut off when the fire first started.  He wants to check that our power was restored properly. 

Smiling impishly, he advises,  “if it goes boom, run!”

No sparks. Phew, no need to call 118 again.

christmas in cameroon

“Tell me, all of Cameroon wants to know …” a radio station reporter with recorder in hand ask,  “how are your Christmas

celebrations in Cameroon different from where you are from?”

The obvious answer blurted from our friend Catherine’s mouth a moment later –

“There’s no snow here!”

No snow, but plenty of singing!  After a mouth-watering dinner of Chinese stirfry and green onion cakes, we spent a good three hours last night at the Baptist Mission listening to round after round of hymns, sung by children of all sizes and their Mamas (teachers).

It was so impressive to watch eight to twelve year olds lead their choirs in song – or taking up the solos with boisterous strength and joy.  Just as heartening was listening to five year olds recite verses from the bible – in front in of worship hall bursting at the seams.

Now, we must admit … we didn’t know any of the songs, or understand much else!  Our Fulfulde isn’t that good yet!

Nonetheless, the sound of the drums and singing was glorious and the sheer joy on the faces of those gathered was like nothing we’ve ever seen.

After a long sleep – blessedly undisturbed by reindeer or the sounds of snowplows – we awoke to an Xmas morning blanketed in dust.  Oh wait, that’s the way it is every morning!

The inclement weather (yeah right) didn’t stop us from baking our traditional cinnamon buns (in a dutch oven/big pot on the stove) and listening to holiday music.  Pairing these with fresh guava juice made for a lip-smacking good breakyfast!

The most fun, however, was decorating our very special xmas tree!  It isn’t easy to tape decorations onto a big bunch of plantains! Mangoes, however, make amazingly festive decorative balls!

Since filling our food and fun quotient, we’ve been relaxing and reading to each other from the very serious chronicles of “A Wayne in the Manger”.  The rest of the day promises to be filled with more company and more food.  Just like at home!

Of course, in Canada the holiday tunes playing on our ipod wouldn’t be interrupted by the call to prayers at the mosque next door!  It’s Friday, so soon we’ll be trapped inside by hundreds of faithful praying outside our door.

Don’t worry, we’re prepared for the siege… we have chocolate and candy canes!!!