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A Stranger in a Strange Land
By Sandra Acheampong
It would be an understatement to say that the journey had been long – approximately 6,000 miles in a plane to Yaoundé, Cameroon, followed by a 26-hour train ride (one of the train’s cars caught on fire that night) through the rain forest to the capital of the Adamaoua region, Ngaoundéré. Packed into vans and driven to our respective training sites, I, along with other community health volunteers, was taken to Pitoa. The agricultural volunteers were sent to Nassarao. Despite the long voyage, our shared excitement had somehow managed to stay intact. We were newly minted college graduates, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fearing nothing, ready to have a deep and profound impact on the world! How glorious it would all be! And yet, it seemed that as we headed more north, closer to the Sahel, the temperature was not the only thing rising quickly.
As the three months of training crept by, a growing sense of trepidation slowly began to slink through the group. Soon we would all be deployed to our sites, left to our own devices, alone in various villages spread across the North, Far North and Adamaoua provinces, very far away from each other. But we were taught much during the period; learning about the primary health issues in the region, for instance, was one of the most gratifying lessons. We coped without those little luxuries we took for granted just a few short months ago: electric lights, running water, air conditioners, toilet paper, toilets, etc.. After a long and impressive ceremony upon the completion of training, we were sent our separate ways.
Four hours and multiple automotive breakdowns later, I arrived at my new home in Tourningal. My head pounded from dehydration, my eyes stung from the dust and dirt kicked up into the vehicle via glassless windows, and my knees felt permanently locked in place since there had been no room to maneuver during the ride. My counterpart, elated at the arrival of “his” volunteer, moved quickly to help me out of the vehicle. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered; they had been awaiting the arrival of their “Nassara” (translation: white person/foreigner) for weeks. An elderly man asked my counterpart a question in Fufulde, at which everyone burst out into laughter. I asked my counterpart what had been said. He then informed me that the man had asked why the village had not been sent a “real American,” a white person.
I would like to say that things became much easier after all of that, or that I thought I brought sustainability to the village. Or even that I am now a Fufulde master. But none of these would be true. Things got much more difficult before they became easier, and my village undoubtedly taught me more than I taught its inhabitants, two of the greatest being lessons in patience and faith. And though my Fufulde had been quite impressive for a Nassara, the most I can now muster is a simple greeting, “Sanuko!” However, I did manage to accomplish a few things starting with reinvigorating the local women’s group. Many of the towns in Cameroon have a “women’s group,” although not many people could tell you what the group’s purpose was, including the members of said groups. The women’s group in Tourningal was run by my counterpart’s wife. Like me, she initially had grand plans when she arrived at the village but never saw any of her ideas come to fruition, due to the very slow pace of village life and the nonchalant, and often even resistant, communal attitudes towards new things. But by working together, we managed to get the group back on track. I was able to raise some funds, which allowed us to purchase several sewing machines, sewing materials and writing supplies for the women.
The village chiefs granted us the use of one of the community buildings – yes, there are two competing chiefs in the village. And yes, this task took a lot of time and a lot of diplomacy but eventually, we set up shop. Four days a week we gave the women sewing and French lessons. Very few women in the village get the opportunity to learn French because of the lack of a high school in the area. Those who could afford to send their children to the closest high school would generally only spend such money on their sons, not daughters. Of course, I jumped in with my health lessons whenever I could. The topics ranged from malaria and STI prevention to nutrition to maternal and child care and everything in between. The women enjoyed these sessions immensely. And although I was aware that they were predominantly drawn by the chance to see the token Nassara, this did not matter as long as they retained some of the information. However, it is one thing to retain information and quite another to put it to use. As a volunteer, one of my main goals was to promote behavioral change, a very difficult task in any situation. And although the success rate for such change was low, it did steadily increase.
The group also evolved into a business that generated profit shared amongst the women via a micro-finance infrastructure. The women’s group became my primary project but I also produced similar presentations to the community as a whole at the health center. A greater challenge that was because in such a Muslim and patriarchal community, it took some time for the men to respect, listen, and accept the fact that a female volunteer could possibly know more than them about any topic. I also helped vaccinate hundreds of children and eventually learned to pump my water and transport the pail without spilling half of its contents on my way back to my house. Somewhere along the way, I also became the weekly English teacher to a group of girls whom I befriended and will never forget. It was a bittersweet experience. They were all so intelligent and inquisitive: “What is America like?” “Will you get to choose whom you marry and when?” “Are women allowed to live by themselves in America?” “Did you go to university?” “Do you know how to drive a car… and do you have one?” It was heartbreaking to answer their questions pertaining to the freedoms they will never have and the lives which they will only dream of leading.
Thankfully, I was eventually accepted by my village, and was able to prove to them that Americans were willing to go a long way – and that we could be any color! – even if the help we had to offer was only a drop in the bucket. After all, what is an ocean other than a lot of drops of water?
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