Kids in Mora have come up with a particularly annoying version. They address me as “Nassara de Godigong.” Annoying because it makes no sense! Godigong is a neighboring village with a health center that has Western volunteers passing through frequently. Perhaps they were particularly generous in giving out candy. Or perhaps, according to popular legend, one of the former directors of the center was a white woman who spoke Mandara fluently, an automatic ticket to celebrity status. Whatever the reason, thanks to the white people at Godigong, “Nassara de Godigong” is the blanket term for all white people in Mora. All the little kids in the entire town chant the phrase obnoxiously in a sing-song voice with an “O weey!” at the end whenever you pass by, giggling and hoping for “cadeaux.”
I am by no means the only “nassara” in Mora. Mora has an unusually high concentration of white people, with three Peace Corps volunteers in one town, very unusual for Peace Corps. Volunteer Services Overseas (VSO) also sends volunteers who stay for six month stints. At one point we numbered as many as six volunteers. We have made it our goal to try to get the kids to change their chant. We explain repeatedly that we do not live in Godigong, we live in Mora for pete’s sake, and that not all white people work for the health center! In my neighborhood, I’ve made a lot of headway. Most of the kids now call me by name or with “Nassara Gribala.” Near CADEPI, though, there is still a whole horde of urchins who yell it at the top of their lungs and slap my butt as they run alongside my bike. I’ve offered them alternatives: “Nassara de Mora” or “Nassara de CADEPI” or “Madame” or “Jessica”- anything but “Nassara de Godigong!”- but to no avail. One day I will have to visit that health center and meet these mysterious “nassaras de Godigong.”
Basically, being white here is like being famous: There is no such thing as an incognito entrance or exit. People are always watching you; anything you do is noticed by many people. You can’t go anywhere without attracting attention, or without being greeted by a bunch of people.
Having “Nassara de Godigong” chanted at you isn’t the only annoying part of being the racial minority in Mora. I’m routinely “deranged” (one of the Franglais terms popular among PCVs, from the French verb “deranger,” a great word for expressing annoyance, irritation, or bother) by people who assume that I’m rich. I’m a target for beggars, young and old alike, who ask imploringly “Tu ne donne pas un cadeau?” or more bluntly “Donne-moi l’argent!”
I’m also a target for single men. I get hit on because I’m a “nassara” and thus apparently rich enough to carry them away to the US. Catcalls of “ma cherie” or “can I accompany you” or “good morning I love you” are often the soundtrack of my sorties. Some of them have a particular way of talking to me that drives me up the wall; they speak with condescension, in a high falsetto, as if they’re speaking to a little kid. To them, talking to a nassara is a big joke. They flirt very efficiently, skipping right to offers of marriage. If I enter into a conversation with them, a minute or two later they’ll already be asking “Are you married?” Saying no is an invitation to more deranging, but saying yes often doesn’t deter them either. They’re pretty full of themselves, they can’t take a hint! They think no means yes. I give all the normal body language that I’m not interested in talking, that I’m irritated, which would work in the US, and they don’t get the message.
Next they’ll ask, “Can I have your number” or “Can I visit you at your house?” Giving them your number is a huge mistake, due to the Cameroonian tradition of “beeping.” People who want to get to know you in Cameroon believe that if they have your number they have permission to call you at any time of the day, even if you’ve only met them once. And no one has any money and phone credit is expensive, so right before you pick up they hang up. They only “beep” or let it ring a couple times. When I was a young and naïve PCV, I gave out my number, and people would “beep” me ten times a day, starting as early as 5am!! Talk about an invasion of privacy. Since then I’m very reluctant to give out my number, to avoid having people I barely know beeping me all day. And single men start sending you the most ridiculous chain texts, like “The weatherman predicted that a storm of kisses would descend upon your house…” or “This is your car, with the keys to success in life. Jump in and drive to your dreams!” haha
So there are disadvantages to being a nassara. Plus, I make babies cry. A lot of toddlers either stare in wide-eyed shock or burst into tears at the sight of me- a ghostly white monster! For the first five months I was here, I made my neighbor’s daughter cry anytime I got anywhere near her (She loves me now though, I always win them over ;).
Happily, the “derangers” are relatively few and far between. According to volunteers in the South, deranging in the North is not that bad. My friends who came to visit from the South couldn’t stop commenting on how “calm” the North is, how nice and polite everyone is, as compared to the South, where people are more aggressive and loud and physical and actually grab you in the marketplace.
This is true. The majority of people I’ve met in Mora are very warm and friendly, very genuine, very down-to-earth. They are serial greeters- even if you see them every day, they will usually greet you with the same enthusiasm and take the time to make the usual inquiries: “How are you? How’s the heat/cold? Did you sleep well? Are you going to work? How is your health? Have a good day! See you later!” I never feel like I need to make clever conversation, to be witty or entertaining; they are perfectly satisfied with ordinary answers, with simple conversations about the weather, they’re just happy to be talking with you. They’ll call out “nassara,” but it’s not meant to be offensive, it’s just the best way of getting my attention when they don’t know my name. Like saying “Hey Blue Eyes!”
There are definitely advantages to being a nassara too. I’m often treated like a celebrity. For instance, when I’m biking along, kids will come sprinting to the roadside to see me. They’re thrilled just to shake my hand or to have me wave back at them, like I’m Barney or something. Waving back at all the people who are calling out to me, I feel like a princess in a parade! I feel loved. People are curious about me. They find me interesting; I’m a conversation starter. This makes it easier to meet people. People remember meeting you, remember the last time you visited months ago- I feel special. Also, I am well on my way to becoming a professional Cameroonian wedding crasher, because it is an honor to have a white person at a wedding. It shows it’s a good party. News about me travels fast-everyone in Mora could probably find my house easily, all they have to do is ask around for where the nassara lives (weirds me out a little).
People are pretty open-minded too. Even though Mora society is conservative Muslim, people are very tolerant. They don’t seem to mind the faux pas I’ve committed or new things I’ve introduced; they take it all in stride. Their attitude seems to be “well, that’s how she does it in her country” or “she’s a nassara so she doesn’t know any better.” When I’m reluctant to do something, like drink unfiltered water or eat from the same plate as five other people, they’ll say to each other-“Elle n’est pas habituée/She’s just not used to it”- and that’s perfectly acceptable to them.
People are also always ready to help you out. People assume I need more help because I’m not familiar with the area, so they’re eager to give directions or help me find something in the market or whisk my bike off to be fixed. Or they’ll allow me to skip to the front of the line, to talk directly to the person in charge, or to take the best seat. They frequently mistake me for a tourist, even when I’m biking with my hoe en brousse, something no tourist would be doing! They’ll say “Bonne Arrivee!” like I haven’t been here for eight months, or “You must be lost; what are you looking for?”
I get irritated when people take it too far and treat me like a little kid because I don’t know how to do something. In some ways when I first got here I was a little kid, in that simple things were new to me: the weird electrical sockets, measuring in kilometers instead of miles, eating right-handed not left-handed, getting on and off a moto, fastening traditional clothing, gesturing to say come here, shaking hands. Women always find something to criticize with my household chores, too, since they are masters at washing clothes by hand and other household tricks that compensate for all the American household gadgets I’m used to relying on. They’ll say, “Ce n’est pas comme ça qu’on fait! Not like that!” And often they’re right. Other times, though, I just want to be like look I’m not doing it wrong it’s just different! Or, this is how we do it in the US and it works perfectly well, it even works better! Or if I’m really irritated: that’s a stupid way to do it why can’t Cameroonians just do it our way? I can see how some of the irritation I’ve felt could be distorted into “my culture is superior, more civilized! We do everything better!” So when I start feeling like that I take a break.
It will be an adjustment going back to life in the US, back to being a nobody! It’s kind of fun getting all the attention. Here most of the kids in my neighborhood know my name, whether I’ve played with them or not. I’m a star, through no fault of my own. Not so back home! Maybe when I get back I’ll be better at looking ridiculous and not caring, since every day here I can’t help but draw attention to myself. I’ll be used to receiving stares. As my friend who is a PCV in Kenya put it, since getting to her post, she’s spent most of her free time “drinking chai and getting stared at.”
Dancing at village wedding
two of my neighbors' kids. want me to paint their nails every day haha
For every holiday, there is a parade. This was the International Women's Day parade, where all the women march in clothes made in matching pagne. I marched with my friend Liz and her womens' group.
Liz Loftus in her women's day pagne
Youth Day Parade
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