A Cameroonian Touch

One reason Nomi is worth all the trouble he causes: he provides a good cuddle outlet. Physical affection is so comforting. My anxiety would be much higher if I had to go through 90% of every day without some form of it.
This is not to say that Cameroonians aren’t touchy. I have had my face pinched (an unsuccessful attempt by my large and loud boutique friend, Madame Ladi, to remove a blemish), been picked up by (also Madame Ladi), had hair braided, clothes adjusted, grass picked off of, dust brushed off of, had measurements taken, danced with (sometimes this is disgusting, like the old man who put his hands right on my butt with such entitlement – found out the next day that he’s infamous for that -, or the bulbous-bellied goofy man, recognizable for by half-black slanted front teeth and toddle-like behavior who burped beer and oily feast food in my face. This is was absolutely disgusting; I’m embarrassed to write it.), patted affectionately, been petted by little girls, held hands in singing or exercise circles, been hugged around the knees by children, been squished, sat on, leaned against and slept on during transport – a man’s sleepy head on my knee once -, had my hand shaken by nearly every person in this country I’ve met, and kissed on the cheek by one. All of these have happened in public, except perhaps the last one, which was in public but also inside a car after dark. Cameroonians talk a lot about how the white man – a category with includes all Americans and Europeans – has all the good things and a lot more knowledge and resources (which in many ways is true). Sometimes I pipe in – usually to explain, “it’s much better to be poor here then to be poor in America,” and sometimes I just listen (or, if I’m grading papers or preparing a lesson, tune it out). But it’s good to see that their opinion of our country as a golden paradise doesn’t inhibit them from getting personal. Integration, crossing boundaries.