“Tssssst!”

1) The other day, I was speaking to my friend, Prisca. In front of our house, at the bottom of a slope, there is a well to which children are sent throughout the day to collect water. They carry large plastic “gallons” on their heads, in preparation for cooking, bathing, or washing “dresses.” One afternoon, I encountered a group of kids, one being Prisca, a five-year-old girl with attitude. I grabbed her gallon and carried it on my head as I talked with her and her siblings. I told them that I wanted to help, which everyone appreciated except for Prisca. She hid behind her brother, Suri, and started yelling at me. “You will give me my gallon!” I tried to explain I was just trying to help, but she started to cry, so I gave it back to her. Her brother and sisters found it hilarious. I grabbed Suri’s gallon as a replacement, and accompanied them to their house. Later, I asked Suri why Prisca was afraid of me, and he said she thought I was going to “catch her and beat her.” A white monster, I guess.

Anyway, since then, Prisca has warmed up to me. Yesterday, she let me carry her gallon halfway to her house, a favor for which I was grateful. While I was walking and talking with her and Suri, I noticed a long black scar on Prisca’s cheek. I asked Suri where it came from (Prisca’s English is respectable, but not great). He said that their mother beat her. I asked more, and he chuckled, saying that Prisca would not go get water, so their mother threw her against the wall. (Suri is only a year or two older than Prisca, maybe six-years-old.)

It’s been on my mind since he told me about it. It sounds so cruel; yet here, it’s culturally acceptable. I asked my students about it, and the reaction was mixed. Some said it’s not right, while others had no qualms over it. I tried to explain the difference between punishing a child out of anger or hate, and disciplining a child in love. Fortunately, I saw enough heads nod that I felt like I had plenty of supporters.

2) Last Saturday, one of the grounds men showed me the water system here. He showed me where they tap water from the ground, and then the large room where the water is then filtered by osmosis. Of course, this filtration room is unlocked; anyone can go down there and fulfill any mischief he fancies. Then, I was shown the pipe that leads to the water pump, which sends the water to the holding tank. Again, not surprisingly, the pipe has two major leaks, releasing water that I would love for my morning showers.

3) I was flipping through my faithful dictionary the other day, trying to find some word from Gilead, and in the process, I made a discovery. Since we arrived in Cameroon, we hear almost daily from someone who’s suffering from “katar,” which is the same as a cold in the states: runny nose, sore throat, and general discomfort. Charlie, Wes, and I had assumed all this time that calling this condition “katar” was just another African/Cameroonian peculiarity. And then I discovered in my trusty Oxford “catarrh”—“inflammation of a mucous membrane; especially: one chronically affecting the human nose and air passages.” Catarrh...who knew? Africa is like the land of opportunity for English vocabulary: no matter what its background in the West, a word can find a home out here.

4) Alcohol is such a big deal among the seminary’s denomination that students will often screen out or censor anything that might suggest a possible allowance for alcohol in the Bible. In my New Testament class today, we discussed 1st Corinthians, and after class, a student named Gershom asked about Paul’s writing about the Lord’s Supper. “It says that some of the Corinthian Christians were becoming drunk. Does this mean they were…[awkward, groping pause]…drinking…water?” I just gave him a look, and, smiling, told him I wasn’t going to answer that.

5) An unfortunate story from about a month ago. I was walking by the female dormitory, and wanted to wave hello to a student. I made a sound to get her attention—a “tssss!” sound I had heard other Cameroonians use. When she turned around, smiling sheepishly, and said, “Thank you,” I was a bit frightened. When I later found out that in some parts of Cameroon, that sound is used to…ahem…compliment women…I was horrified. If that’s not a classic/type stupid-Western-missionary story, I don’t know what is.

6) Here are a couple pictures I took as I administered a Greek exam today.

--tg