Irony and Isadore

When I got back from my trip to France, I found that instead of grass growing unevenly over my less uneven than before front yard and awkward crookedly planted plants flourishing, I had a newly evened out dirt front yard and fewer plants.

Monsieur Dato, the landscaper in Dimako, had been hired by my landlord to “arrange” the yard. There are very few places in town that are landscaped – the weird median and roundabout by the market, the hotel (which has A/C, when there’s electricity) and the ostrich house. Now we can apparently add my house to the list. My landlord has a vision – grass surrounded by stonework and two great big iron lights in the middle of all that grass. He also wants the side of the house totally herbicided, so should I decide to go totally against Peace Corps policy and paycheck and buy a car, I’ll have a very nice mud driveway to park it in.

Anyway, Isadore is the guy who does all the work. He’s probably 60, but might be older or younger. He is short and wiry and has the beginnings of a Fu Manchu mustache. He also, for some unknown reason, constantly wears a lambswool-lined hat, even when you sweat in the shade. (I say this as I am cowering under my down comforter, when it might be 80 degrees out.)

I generally wake up at about 6 in my new house, because I am now lucky enough not to live next to the main road with all its motos, logging trucks, buses and goats. Actually, now that I think about it, I have yet to be woken up by anything besides my desperate need to brush my teeth. How lucky am I!

Anyway, I wake up at about 6, brush, floss and make my dentist proud. Then I either get dressed and exercise or get dressed to exercise and lay on my floor, listen to music and get bit by ants. By the time Isadore arrives, I’ve finished and bathed and I’m making breakfast.

Every morning we greet each other  - “Good morning. How are you? Did you sleep well? Well, I’m standing up, so I must have!” This is generally followed by efforts to renegociate our bargain on my raised bed garden. After all that is said and done, Isadore generally shares a bit of wisdom with me:

“Madame, some one has shit in your kitchen.”
“What?! What the poop?! I am nice to people and I greet everyone! Why would someone shit in my kitchen? The latrine is right there!”
“Well, madame, they did it on purpose.”
“But why would some one do that?!”
“Well, madame, you see, African men they don’t think like you and me. They are different.” (Forgetting of course that he is a man and he is African. Therefore, he is an African man.)

“Yesterday I was doing my project (the quilt) and I poked a hole in my finger and I was bleeding and I felt sick. I was soooo white! I was as white as chalk. I felt sick and I had to put my head on my knees. It was bad.”
“Well, madame, you know you have different skin from me. African men – they have the skin of wild forest animals! It is strong and it doesn't bleed like yours.”

“You know Isadore, in the United States, it’s really taboo to talk about money, so it makes me very uncomfortable, when you don’t even greet me and you are asking me for money. We agreed on an amount and I’ve already paid you.”
“Well, madame, you know we Africans are different about money. We argue the price all the time.”

The wisdom I get from Cameroonian women tends to actually be helpful and wise.