A La Salle Informatique.

In my last post, I referred to (or more like expounded longwindedly upon) the absurdity that is me teaching computer theory to a group of middle-school-aged francophone African children; what I had not yet described (or experienced), however, was the equal-but-different absurdity that is me teaching computer application to a group of middle-school-aged francophone African children.

Which is to say, roundaboutedly, that this week, I ventured into the “salle informatique,” or computer lab, for the first time, with my 6eme classes. (“Salle informatique” is in quotes like that to signify the French-ness of the phrase, but there should probably be quotes around “computer lab,” as well, because the term is a fairly generous overstatement to apply to a small room with like seven computers, of which three are functioning. But more on that to follow.)

My first endeavor in the computer lab went like this: I had intended to investigate beforehand and ensure that all of the computers etcetera were working before arriving with a group of seventeen overeager students-in-tow, but I never got the chance to do so (excuses excuses teaching is hard and time-consuming blah blah blah) and instead idealistically banked on the (contextually-)preposterous notion that, yes, of course all of the computers in the computer lab would be, like, hooked up, and have power to them, and turn on, and things like that. Of course.

So, I arrived in the computer lab, seventeen overeager students-in-tow, to discover that, of course, no, the computers were not hooked up, and no, they did not have power to them, and no, they did not turn on, and things like that. After a few chaotic minutes of overeager students running around overeagerly trying to diagnose computer problems they were even less qualified than me to be trying to diagnose, I got them to settle down; and after a few slightly-less chaotic minutes of shouting at them to identify various components of the electricity-less computers (“Où est la souris?! Où est le clavier?! OU EST L’UNITE CENTRALE?!”), I found the switch to turn on the electricity to the room. It was at this point that I ascertained that three of the computers were, in fact, functioning (the rest serving, apparently, as props to give the “computer lab” a more legitimate feel) and we commenced our lesson. Almost all of the kids had already used computers—at least a little bit—before (the benefits of working in a fancy private school) so they caught on fairly quickly to the how-to-move-a-desktop-icon-and-how-to-create-a-folder lesson. The class came to an abrupt halt, however, when the power suddenly cut out, as the power often does in Cameroon. Fortunately, this corresponded very closely to the end of class, chopping off only 3 or 4 minutes or so from the end of the lesson. But it was a fitting end nevertheless.

While admittedly shaky at best, my first computer lab experience, viewed through the rose-colored hindsight of later-in-the-week, was like a very serene walk along a very serene and idyllic beach, or something very serene and idyllic like that. Which is to say, on Wednesday, I returned to the computer lab with my 50-student class of Dounia Andal-ers (Dounia Andal is the markedly less expensive Franco-Arab private school attached to its rich older sibling Groupe Scolaire Bilingue Les Hirondelles, where, as such, classes are a little closer to normal Cameroonian-class-size, and where, also, as such, the kids are a little closer to normal Cameroonian socioeconomic standards, meaning that most of them have never had access to a computer in their lives). While I was more prepared this time in the respects of knowing how many computers worked and how to get power to them and things like that, the addition of some-30-odd students meant jumping from the (contextually-)reasonable 5-ish students per computer, to the much less reasonable (in any context) let’s-cram-dozens-of-shouting-children-into-a-small-room-and-try-not-to-get-mauled-in-the-mad-rush-at-the-three-functioning-computers-that-ensues. I had to stop the lesson every minute and a half or so to yell at the kids to 1) back away from the computers, or 2) stop talking, or 3) stop opening random applications. All of this weighed significantly on the pace of the lesson, such that over the course of the hour, I managed to teach how to click and drag an icon across the desktop. And I didn’t even finish teaching that.

Apparently, taking 50 students to the computer lab is sort of an obvious recipe for disaster that the other informatique teacher would never be so naively unrealistic as to attempt, opting instead to divide the large classes into groups and leave half of the students in an empty classroom with the discipline master to watch over them. Which means that, with one hour of informatique per week per class, any given practical lesson—such as, for example, how to move a desktop icon and create a folder—would take two full weeks to complete. My principal offered some slightly different advice when I recounted the incident to him, which is that I cease computer lab trips entirely for Dounia Andal and give only theory lessons. I’m torn between which is the more ideal of the two not-quite-ideal options. He also mentioned a third, much-more-ideal possible option, however: which is that he has ordered 30 computers for the school, the arrival of which he is currently awaiting, pending some sort of delivery issue, or something. The details are unclear, but the crucial point is that 30 computers may or may not be appearing at the school at an undisclosed date sometime in the near or not-so-near future. Thirty computers is basically an unheard of number for any Cameroonian school—three is a stretch for most schools—but I am crossing my fingers all the same.

A general not-specifically-informatique-related note on teaching: Before I began teaching, I was advised by many people, on many occasions, that I need to be “firm” with my classes in order for my students to respect me; several went so far as to instruct me not to smile in the presence of my students for the entire first month of knowing them. Sort of a rule-by-an-iron-face (get it? Like iron fist, but face?!) mentality. Of course, being me, I knew this would not be happening, at least to the extent that they emphasized: 1) because I have never inspired fear in anyone in my life, but also: 2) because I had this sort of idealistic belief that you can teach a class and have your students respect you without projecting a constantly angry persona. I kind of tried to do the vaguely-irritated-professional-face thing during my first week of classes, and I knew that I’d been at least marginally successful when, during the second week, I slipped up and smiled in my 5e English class, and a student raised her hand and asked, very earnestly, “Sir, why are you happy today?”

Since then, as I’ve gained more experience in Cameroonian schools, I’ve adopted somewhat of a middle ground on the matter, in that the students probably try things with me that they wouldn’t try with Cameroonian teachers (like greeting me with a handshake, one day, when I walked into class) but they also calm down enough that I’m able to get through my lessons without too many problems (excluding my rather disastrous recent computer lab trip, of course; but I’m mostly speaking in regards to my English classes). Of course, the vaguely-irritated-professional-face is sometimes impossible to maintain. Like the other day, I was in the middle of explaining a vocabulary term to a student, when another student shouted out, sort of spastically, and with slight hesitation as she searched for the correct word in English, “I’m cl-cleaning my nose!” Apparently, taking my (not always reinforced) “no-French-in-class” rule to heart, she was trying to explain to her benchmate that she needed to blow her nose. Other funny moments have included: when thirteen and fourteen year-old boys approach me during class, clutching the crotch of their pants dramatically like small children, in order to make their requests to go to the bathroom seem more believable or desperate (which, paradoxically, always succeeds in doing just the opposite); or when I hold up a piece of chalk at the beginning of class and begin to ask, “Who—”, but before I even get the second syllable out, a dozen frantic hands are waving in the air at the prospect of writing today’s date on the board.

Incidents like these, as a teacher, make me look back on all of my being-a-student years very differently – and wonder what my teachers were really thinking all those times that they seemed so professional and serious…

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“Mo money, mo checks, I’m addicted – I love Africa.”

The Catch-22 of having a blog is that whenever I have the most things to say, I also have the least amount of time in which to say them. This week marked the “rentrer de l’école,” or the first week of the Cameroonian school year. Of course, “first week” is somewhat of a misleading term, as it is a generally understood and accepted fact that the majority of students won’t start arriving until the second week, when classes really start.

Working at a private school, though, is a kind of strange hybrid of order and chaos; things are a bit more organized than public schools, insofar as teachers actually know their class schedules and are expected to show up and teach during the first week, but they can’t plan anything of too much importance, because half of the class is still absent. So it boils down to a lot of time-killing review activities, and painstaking writing of the class syllabus across the chalkboard for students to painstakingly copy down in their workbooks, and other sort of painstakingly time-killing activities.

My most challenging classes, so far, have been informatique, where I am entrusted with the task of teaching simple enough basic computer stuff like “how to double click a mouse” and “how to save a Word document,” to the equivalent of seventh and eighth graders. However, in addition to practical knowledge, a large component of the national syllabus centers on computer theory: a detailed history of the progression of the first calculators in the 17^th century to the first computers in the 20^th century, a detailed explanation of the various hardware and software components that comprise a modern day computer, and other various detailed computer things about which I know very little and for which I am very unqualified to be teaching a class. Fortunately, I was given books from which I can basically copy my lessons word-for-word to transcribe onto the blackboard. Unfortunately, the books, like the classes itself, take place entirely in French. So even basic near-cognates like “operating system” (“systeme d’exploitation”) require a dictionary-search before I write them into my notes. While the downside of this is that preparing a lesson entails hours of preparation to avoid making a fool of myself in front of my class, the upside is that my French computer vocabulary is already improving dramatically. As is my repertoire of computer-related fun facts. For example: a “bug” is called a “bug” because the first computer error was caused by an insect, which, attracted by the heat of the lamps that powered a sort of giant lamp-powered calculator, caused a short circuit in the machinery.

Another funny aspect of teaching stems from the fact that I am the only female teacher at my otherwise entirely male-staffed school (except for, supposedly, a female knitting teacher who will be arriving sometime next week). As a consequence of which, about 75% of the time, instead of referring to me as “Mrs. Sterling” (as I introduced myself to my English classes), my students refer to me as “Sir.” Or, they self-correct mid-sentence and call me “Sir… Mrs.” I suppose I am partially to blame for reinforcing this habit, since I find it too entertaining to correct most of the time; but, really, it is too entertaining to correct most of the time.

Outside of school-land: Apart from the knick knack vendors that sell q-tips and watches and pirated DVDs in bars and restaurants and on the streets, I haven’t properly described the process of shopping, yet, in Cameroon. There are several markets within the general proximity of where I live; the closest one is right in Nassarao, but it’s only open on Wednesdays, and its inventory doesn’t extend much beyond carrots and bananas. The largest market—and the one I have frequented the most since my arrival—is the aptly-named Grand Marché (Big Market) in Garoua. Here you can find vendors selling everything from radios to floor mats to vegetables to fabric to plastic chairs to kitchenware. Because I don’t know my way around yet, if I want to purchase a particular product—say, a dustpan—the process thus entails something like: approaching one vendor, inquiring as to whether he or she (usually he) sells dustpans, being directed to another vendor, who sends me on a moto ride along to yet another vendor, etc. Until, ideally, I find the dustpan. Shopping for clothes is basically the same process, except with less inquiring and more being ushered into stalls and presented with piles of cheaply-made shiny plastic-wrapped Cameroonian clothes, and notably less-shiny un-plastic-wrapped Salvation Army Western rejects. (My favorite find so far, which I immediately purchased, has been a green t-shirt with what appears to be a man in a wheelchair scaling a strangely-distorted Cameroonian flag, with the words: “Mo money, mo checks, I’m addicted – I love Africa” screenprinted across the front).

The next part of the shopping process consists of actually paying for the products, which entails something like: I ask how much said dustpan or tacky souvenir t-shirt costs, to which the vendor replies with some grossly-inflated number, to which I counter with some slightly less grossly-inflated number, to which he or she scoffs and make some comment about how “there is no white person tax,” and the haggling continues until we agree on a (probably still grossly-inflated) price. Usually this process is very short for me, because I seem to be in the minority of Peace Corps volunteers who strongly dislikes and avoids at all costs haggling.

Which brings me to my other shopping option: the supermarché. There are three supermarket type stores that I have frequented in Garoua: “the Chinese Store” (a Chinese-owned shop that sells houseware-type things), “the Iranian Store” (an Iranian-owned shop that also sells houseware-type things, as well as hard-to-find food items such as oatmeal and cheese), and the inexplicably-named “Cheap Store” (a Cameroonian-owned shop that sells the same kinds of elusive hard-to-find-food-items and houseware type things). The benefit of frequenting these stores is that the prices are fixed, so even if you overpay, at least you know everybody else is overpaying, too. The odd part about shopping at these stores is that the employees often follow you, step-by-step, around the store and stare at you as you browse, going so far as to pick up items off the shelves and put them in your basket. The last time I was at the Cheap Store, the employee took it one inappropriate step further and placed a package of cookies in my basket for me to purchase, not for myself, but for her. What is more inappropriate is that, for some reason, I agreed to do so; the cookies were on sale, and she was nice, in a kind of strangely bold way, and the situation was so bizarre I didn’t have the presence of mind to formulate a proper response. After I acquiesced, though, she decided to try her luck once more, removing the cookies from my basket and explaining: “Actually, I can’t eat cookies, they upset my stomach; you can just give me the money instead.” When I declined this second request, she returned the cookies to my basket and decided they didn’t upset her stomach, too much, after all.

One more funny anecdote: Ever since my arrival in Cameroon, but especially since my arrival in the North, my first conversation with just about every Cameroonian I’ve met has gone something like this:

-Bonjour, ça va?
-Ça va, et vous?
-Ça va bien. Comment vous appelez-vous?
-Sterling.
-Estrlaannng ?
-Staaaaair-leeeeeng.
-Stelllleeeeen ?
-Staaaaair-leeeeeng.
-Strelleeeng?
-Oui. Staaaaair-leeeeeng.

Which is to say, my neighbors have just about as hard of a time pronouncing and/or remembering my name as I do pronouncing and/or remembering theirs. This is fortunate, in a way, as it alleviates some of the awkwardness that ensues when I inevitably butcher and/or forget their names as well. But one of my neighbors has found his own solution to the problem that is my name: replace it with a Muslim Cameroonian name. More specifically, with the Muslim Cameroonian name of “Aissatou. When I relayed this story to some of my other neighbors, they took a liking to my new name, as well. So I am now referred to as one of four designations around Nassarao: “Strelleeng,” “Aissatou,” “Aissatou Strelleeng,” or “Strelleeng Aissatou.” Or, of course, my old favorite: “Nassara.”

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