Kentzou!

            After our long day of traveling, Geoff and I dropped our bags off at his house (where there was an adorable Welcome Steph poster colored in by children of Kentzou hanging in his living room). Geoff has a pretty sick spot for a peace corps volunteer. His house is concrete, with a tin roof and screened windows. He also has a smaller house in his compound for his chickens (he has 2). In addition to that, he has a large yard, a normal latrine and a bread oven.

            The following morning we went to the market where I met a zillion of Geoff’s friends and acquaintances. Kentzou is great because there is a market everyday. In most villages, the market only occurs one or two days a week, so you have to get all your shopping done that day. Kentzou is a border town (it is way closer to the Central African Republic than to Batouri), and a stop for logging trucks coming from the Congo in the CAR, so a market every day makes sense. On the flipside of that, Kentzou can be more dangerous for Peace Corps volunteers because of the amount of strangers that come through daily. The “village” is home to 15,000 people, with 3,000 of that number being refugees from the CAR. Geoff has never had a problem with his safety or anyone breaking into his house, but he takes the necessary precautions to prevent that. He walks around town with his machete frequently (I’m not joking), does not display his American wealth (computer, etc), and made friends with all the right people (police, army, political officials as well as informal leaders of the community like chiefs or businessmen). Most villages where PCVs are posted are small enough where the community looks out for the PCVs and those means are probably smart, but not necessary. That’s not the case with Kentzou because of its size and the transitory nature of the people living there. But don’t get me wrong, I never once felt unsafe while I was there. I merely aim to describe what its like for a white person (stereotype of white people in Africa is that they are all rich) to live in a Cameroonian border town.

            In the market I met my favorite family in Kentzou, headed by Douda and Ina (pronounced dow-DA and EE-na). Douda owns a very nice boutique in the market where his children sell the goods from their farm. He is also a prominent member of the Islamic community (which forms the majority of the people in Kentzou). Long story short, Douda is a boss. Ina was one of the nicest people I met in Cameroon. Despite our language barrier (she didn’t speak much French and hey, neither did I at that point), she was always wonderfully welcoming and kind, and for the most part, we made ourselves understood to one another. Ina ushered us into their house (which was right next to Douda’s shop) and immediately shoved a baby in my arms. This baby wasn’t as afraid of white people. She fed us (as is customary when receiving a guest) beans and rice as well as a drink called ‘gari’ in Fulfulde and ‘buie’ in French. Gari is a liquidy porridge made from fermented milk and oats. Definitely an acquired taste.

            While walking through Kentzou, I discovered that its inhabitants have a different name for white girl than I would’ve thought. In Kentzou, Julia means white girl. I would be walking down the street and have children rush up to me yelling “Julia! Julia! Julia! Saanu!” (Saanu is Fulfulde for hello). The first day, I told them all that no, I was not Julia. But after the eightieth time, I gave up. After that, I just smiled and said hello back. Julia is Geoff’s post mate and was the first girl to be posted in Kentzou. She was almost at the completion of her service, so had been living and working in Kentzou for about two years (she was an education volunteer and taught English in the schools). Its incredible the impression that she made on that community. Everybody knew who Julia was, which is a good and bad thing. Good, because she made such a positive impact on the community, and bad because she could never get a moment’s peace (also bad because if everyone knows where the white person lives, everyone knows where to steal from…especially in a town where the people in it changes frequently). Finally, at the end of my four days in Kentzou, some children called me Julia and their mother yelled at them, that is NOT Julia. I was thrilled she recognized me as not-Julia.