An excessively long post on dresses, Christmas, and the man who makes us food

On Christmas I wore a dress and didn’t get in trouble. In fact, I spent Christmas with two other men wearing dresses and none of us got in trouble. We were even complemented by most everyone we saw. They applauded the fact that we were wearing attire that would elsewhere be deemed questionable for people of our gender. Tommy hasn’t bought a dress yet, so he was stuck with slacks, a dress shirt and a power tie, which is okay, but simply not the same as a dress.

Now, I should qualify that these “dresses” are called “Saros,” and really are quite wonderful. You get matching trousers and a matching cap, and a very long matching shirt that extends from your shoulders to below your knees. It is quite the getup, and when you walk through Ndu town in such an outfit you are met with laughs of unbelief, cheers, handshakes, and exclamations such as “Cameroonians!” “Nigerians!” “Muslims!” We had no idea what we were getting into when we decided to outfit ourselves with these Saros. Muslims? On Christmas, Wesley and I wore our gowns, and all three of us presented one to Pa as a Christmas gift.

This picture is taken at Pa’s house, on Christmas day. He was excited to have a new Saro, and even more excited to have his three white missionaries at his house to eat and celebrate with him. We really did have a wonderful time, and ate more country chop than we have up to this point, combined: Fufu corn, njama-njama, rice, stew, chicken, coco-yams, jin-jin, it was all there.

One of the highlights of going to a Cameroonian’s home for Christmas (or for any occasion) is that you get another opportunity to see life from a fresh vantage point. We know Pa as the man who works on the other side of the left wall of our living room. He makes good smells waft through the house from about 6:30 to 12:30. He drinks coffee whenever you offer it. He carries food out of his hidden doorway, and we always eat it. We know that if we ever compliment his cooking he will make a strange, happy noise, and give us two thumbs-up. Some days we greet him in the local dialect, “We sa’a ke” (“How are you?”) already knowing the obvious response he will give, “Me sa’a yu ka” (“Fine.”). We pay him money from time to time to buy ‘needed’ food at the market, and when he returns from the market we ask him how it was. “Fine.” All of these encounters are usually short, brief. When I see him in town, we usually lapse into the rhythmic, “We sa’a ke,” “Me sa’a yu ka,” and I leave those moments knowing that there is much more to this man than any of us know. So we decided to spend Christmas with our Pa, in his house, which is made out of mud bricks, a cement floor and an aluminum top. It looks like it has three large, empty rooms, and next to this bare structure is a small hut in which his family cooks.

Sometime when we were sitting in Pa’s entry way, I learned that Pa doesn’t live on the other side of the left wall of our living room. He lives in a house, across town, with his wife and children. He actually has friends, believe it or not. Really—they drop by his house to chat and steal food from his table. Pa is a good listener. I know this because he leans toward you when you are speaking. He has a sense of humor. He firmly corrects those who suppose that we are with the Peace Corps (heaven forbid!), “No. They are teachers at CBTS. I am their cook.” He is loyal. Very loyal. He is loving. He is full of surprises. He is, in short, one of our life-preserver in Ndu, and for that we are very thankful. So thank you Pa, even though you will never read this, since you’re still not really sure what a computer is or how it works.

You will ask me what are the top 10 things I am most thankful for this year in Ndu, Cameroon, and Pa will be in the top three. Wesley informs me that I have two days to make my top 10 list, so when it is up, look for Pa. He will be there.

Charlie