have it your way

There are no McDonalds in Cameroon. Or Nigeria, for that matter. And in general, “having it your way” is simply not how things work here. Instead, I’m at the whim of... everything. Take utilities, for example. Or rather, take them away. On Saturday night, the lights went out in my yurt. Still out Sunday. They also didn’t come back Monday, because, when the technician came to do repairs, a storm had knocked out all the power in the neighborhood. Electricity didn’t return until Tuesday night. At which point I had a delightful two hours of charging everything and doing some much-needed laundry.

But before I could take a shower, the water disappeared. And it’s still out. The water employees are apparently on strike. It could last for 5 days, if their demands aren’t met. At this point, even the reserves are gone, so I’m flushing toilets with rainwater and, when that’s exhausted, washing with bottled.

This uncertainty has applied to Cameroonian research as well. I’m never quite sure what’s going on here, and not (entirely) because of the language issue. At the National Archives, for example, I can’t tell whether my requests are left incomplete because the documents I ask for are missing or because the staff just doesn’t feel like searching for or giving them to me at any given moment. I’ve had requests waved off with “He can’t, he’s eating” followed by “he can’t, he’s sitting,” along with the ever popular “you’ll have to ask the director…and he’s sick.” Since I don’t have multiple months to enjoy this, I’ve been using an unofficial “ask three times, then change the request” approach. Otherwise, it might never end.

But the challenges posed by archive access are nothing compared with the difficulty of actually TALKING to someone. I’m going to give an extended recap here, because, well, yesterday was lousy and I better at least get a story out of it.

When I arrived in Cameroon, I had all of one official contact. So, I called him upon arrival in Yaounde (last week). He was out of town. I called when he got back (Tuesday), he said we’ll meet tomorrow. On Wednesday, he says no, Thursday morning. I call Thursday. He says his driver will come pick me up. All righty. 30 minutes later a driver appears. Off we go to the ministry, where I’m escorted into a waiting room. Another 30 minutes pass and Contact #1 comes in. He tells me that my research subject is very sensitive, so I’ll have to talk to a higher up. Quite high up, in fact. But that, once I do, it will all me smooth sailing. Ok, no problem. But the higher up isn’t available right now. Can I wait? I can wait. Start clock: 10:15 a.m.

11:15 a.m. (hour 1) Sitting in the waiting room, drinking coffee, which has been brought for me. Coffee at the ministry! I’m pretty excited. Leafing through a 2 week old newspaper from the coffee table.

12:15 p.m. (hour 2) I’ve moved onto the stack of English and French-language Chinese PR magazines, circa 2003-2008. Two other people have come in, chatted for a while in an incomprehensible accent, and left. I’m starting to wonder what will happen for lunch, as breakfast (bread, jam, tea) was 5 hours ago.

1:15 p.m. (hour 3) Getting a little dizzy from lack of food and overzealous AC. Try calling Contact #1. No answer.

1:45 p.m. Just as I’m preparing to eat the sugar cubes left from the coffee, someone comes in to take the tray away. I ask about food. He doesn’t seem much better informed than I am. I try to clarify; it has been 3 ½ hours; will Contact #1 return? I’m told to keep waiting. Thankfully, Coffee Guy returns five minutes later with a tin of butter cookies. I eat about ten, feel marginally better, regain enough focus to peruse the grammar section of my French-English dictionary.

2:15 p.m (hour 4) Starting to feel like I have unwittingly become part of a surrealist drama. Waiting room. Overstuffed armchairs. Coffee table. Old magazines. Portrait of President Paul Biya. Clock, permanently stuck at five minutes to 10:00. Waiting. I start getting paranoid. Is someone watching me? Could there be a camera? Is this some kind of a test?

2:45 p.m. Losing it. Decide I no longer care if it’s a test. I open the door to ask someone—anyone!--if perhaps “j’ai mal compris?” No, he says, I haven’t misunderstood. Contact #1 hasn’t forgotten about me. I just need to wait some more. I turn around, re-close the door (“Veuillez maintenir la porte fermee, S.V.P.”) and return to my seat.

3:15 p.m. (hour 5) It has started to rain. I’m alternating between chilled and slightly feverish; the cold that I can’t quite kick is making me woozy. On the border of losing it. Start wondering what will happen if they come back and find me catatonic or collapsed on the floor. Some other foreigner comes in, sits for no more than 90 seconds, and is called into another office. I’m so out of it I can’t even properly register my jealousy.

3:30 p.m. (5 ¼ hours) Contact #1 finally returns. He has seen the higher up, he says, and mentioned me. Now, I have to write “une demande.” A whatsit? Apparently, a letter of introduction. Which will be given to the higher up, who will then grant me an audience. I am near delirious at this point, but manage to (a) not yell “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that 5 hours ago??” and (b) communicate my need for a computer which, miraculously, is provided. I quaveringly type what I can only hope was a coherent letter, print, and sign. Contact #1, who is still disgustingly bright eyed and bushy tailed, takes the letter, says it will be delivered and I’ll get a meeting. When, I ask? Friday, Monday, Tuesday at the latest. Giving my two days to talk to people? Oh, it will be fine! he says blithely, in a tone implying that rainbows and unicorns will also be mine for the taking.

Color me skeptical. And kiss goodbye any hopes that remained to travel to the Anglophone university in Buea.

Look. I know it’s their country, their rules. And I’ll play by them. But, seriously? Isn’t it generally considered polite to kill your food, rather than playing with it first?