A few thoughts regarding
children, and running: The other day I went for a run after training. I saw my host sister Nanou before I left, and
told her I was going to “faire le sport”, the ubiquitous term that covers
running, playing soccer, working out, or otherwise engaging in exercise. When I got back 45 minutes later, Nanou came
running out of the house to meet me. She
had changed into a full soccer uniform and told me that she, too, was fairing
le sport. Hiding a smile, I asked if she
wanted to stretch with me. Giggling, she
clumsily copied what I did, as I gave her tips on stretching different muscle
groups that I’m quite sure she has already forgotten. Some neighboring girls, Jamila and Seraphine,
ambled over to watch. They are used to
me doing weird things, besides which I’m older; but Nanou is their peer, and
they kept teasing her, asking her what she was doing and giggling as she lunged
and wobbled from one position to the next. Usually quite sensitive to their
opinions, this time Nanou could not be dissuaded; so proud was she to be in on
what we were doing together that she merely turned her nose up at the other
girls and informed them that we were
fairing le sport, thank you very much. While I’m sure this is not an unusual anecdote
for those with younger siblings or nieces and nephews, it was the first time
I’ve seen so visibly the signs of my influence on another person. It was a great feeling to know that I was
influencing her to exercise and take care of her body, and teaching her not to
buckle to peer pressure, to boot.
 |
| Nanou: a self-portrait (or, why it's counter-intuitively a great idea to give kids cameras) |
Later in the week I had a similar
experience. I had taken a long run in
the direction of les champs, the fields several kilometers outside of town that
people who live in Bokito cultivate. As
I was turning back, a little girl in a school uniform started chasing me. I slowed down to let her catch up and asked
if she wanted to run with me. Her name
was Princesse, and she was six years old.
We couldn’t have run more than a few meters before she peeled off, but
she had a bright grin plastered on her face.
It was a sweet moment. I enjoy
that there is no fear of strangers here; children are far more willing to play
than kids in a city like New York.
On the other hand, I am not down
with the unshakable perception of white people as Santa Claus. That’s the other side of the fearless-children
coin: the grubby kids who come running up, hands outstretched, screaming for
gifts. “Donne-moi les bonbons! Donne-moi le yaourt!
Donne-moi les galettes! Cadeaux ! Cadeaux !” I guess I
understand where they’re getting it (the past 200 years of history, for one),
but it’s no less demoralizing.
I’ve also had a hard time getting
used to the impossibility of anonymity.
As much as I knew to expect to stick out all the time, always, it’s
wearing me down more than I thought it would.
No matter where I’m going or what I’m doing, I can count on hearing “Oh!
La blanche!” shouted at me by seemingly everyone I pass. Sometimes it’s a catcall as I’m walking
through the market; sometimes it’s a wavering gasp of astonishment, as though
my interlocutor, cutting his grass by hand with a machete, had glimpsed the
last unicorn. Most of the time it’s just
a simple statement of fact, meant as a form of greeting. Cameroonians are, after all, the masters of
statements of the obvious: “You’re here? I’m here.” So maybe I’m being more sensitive to it than
I need to be; maybe I need to take more care to see things from another
perspective than my own.
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