Cultural exchange

En lieu of organizing any spectacular American feast for Thanksgiving, I traveled to a village outside of the Northwest capitol of Bamenda to participate in a cultural festival, dreamed up and pursued by another volunteer and his counterpart. The idea behind the festival was a partnership between American culture, as represented by volunteers in jeans and t-shirts and the Moghamo people, more formally represented by the chiefs and processions of its 22 existing villages. The end result was impressive as the enthusiasm of the Moghamo people greatly overshadowed its American initiator.
Cameroonians certainly love getting together for the sake of protocol or maybe are even obligated to recognize annual events such as youth day, international women’s day, independence day, and of course the never ending installation of rotating functionaries. The celebrations tend to manifest in the form of waiting a long time for the big guys to arrive, a somber national anthem, several monotonous speeches and an obligatory parade, followed by an evening of fighting over a place in the buffet line and debaucherous palm wine consumption. I’m not sure if any one even has any fun at these events.
However the Batibo cultural festival was a different kind of event. Yes, the district officer never showed up and the sub-district officer came five hours late, the Cameroonian national anthem was followed by it American equivalent, and nobody listened to the ensuing speeches, but the bulk of the program was spent exhibiting the distinctive dance styles and musical accompaniments of the representative villages, interspersed by crowd pleasing American interventions, in the genre of hip-hop dance, folk music and even a round of American football, The Wave included. Dance routines, involving jou-jous, drums and even a sacrificial goat, revolved around the center of the flat field. One group of elementary students, imitated Moghamo warriors and danced menacingly with wooden swords. Jou-jous are the mysterious entities that have inexplicable powers and invoke fear and respect in all who cross their paths, the true identity of a jou jou should remain a secret to all but the most privileged class, this means no women allowed, generally speaking.

The circumference of the stadium, where the festival took place, was full of colorful displays flanking village chiefs and their proudest succession. Observing from their individual palm shades, the village chiefs, sipped palm wine from hollow bull horn cups, and distributed Kola nuts upon proper salutation. I've mentioned before that my region is not too strict concerning how one salutes the chief, I just have to remember not to offer to shake his hand before he offers his own hand. However, some chiefs will never shake hands with anyone, it is also an insult to touch them, so consequently the proper behavior involves kneeling in front of the chief, rubbing your hands together, as if warming them on a cold day, and clapping in a light, discordant fashion.
The reason why I was such a fan of this festival, although my participation was limited to behind the lens, (I boycotted both football and choreographed dance for this designation), was that it facilitated a cultural explosion in an area of Cameroon where culture is quickly losing its importance. Sure it is true that culture is always changing, but as an American, especially, I am envious of people who can trace their heritage, and whether they continue to practice dances climaxing in goat extension followed by sacrifice, or the marriage of adolescent girls to inert grandfathers, at least their progeny will remember and hopefully be able to continue to pass on these stories for future generations.