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The Great Dartmouth Class of 1956
Welcome to
the Great Dartmouth
Class of 1956 Internet Home Page
the very first Dartmouth Class home page on the Internet [originating in 1995]
AND "the only class to graduate from Dartmouth that year" - President Clem, July 2010
Updated 9/1/2010 at 0800 hours Nantucket time (EDT)
MEMORANDUM from Don DAVIDOFF (ddavidof@nycap.rr.com)
August 6, 2010
Our 2010 Dartmouth College Fund campaign has ended.
We exceeded our $150,000 goal by more than $2,500.
We just missed our participation goal of 65% by 1%.
34 volunteers helped with this effort.
253 Classmates participated out of a possible 408 base (621 graduated!).
Our 55th Reunion campaign is underway, and has been since July 1st.
Our goals are being deliberated, but we hope to exceed both with your help.
To make a contribution before this year's end, please mail it to Dartmouth College Fund | 6066 Development Office | Hanover, NH 03755
Thank you - Don
Classmates of the Great Class of 1956: We should be proud that we have helped this guy go to Dartmouth:
From: Jennifer Herron
Date: Fri, 23 Jul 2010 18:16:58 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: John Biberman, Class of '56 scholar
Dear representatives of the Class of '56,
My son, John Biberman '13, is currently the class of '56 Scholarship holder. We are so grateful to all of you for the financial aid, and John has worked very hard this past year to do well in school.(Only one B+ in Accellerated Chemistry, the rest A's).
John spent every spare day during winter and spring break playing the violin in Boston's Public Garden and here at home in San Diego's Balboa Park, to raise money to go to Cameroon this summer. John has been there since he finished finals, and has sent me several e-mails which I think you will find fascinating.
So, with much parental pride, I have below the first five letters from Cameroon. Please send to other members of the class if you think they would enjoy it. John will be home on Aug 18, and will then play the violin oncemore in the park to earn money for school. He is looking forward to seeing you all in the fall at the Class of '56 dinner and he hopes it doesn't rain so much this year.
Sincerely, Jennifer Herron Biberman (Pomona College '78!)
**********************************************************************************************
June 19
Dear Mom and Dad,
So here I am in Africa, sitting in a dingy internet cafe in a Cameroonian village. In the past week, I've had an unbelievable whirlwind of adventures, mishaps, and crazy luck.
Douala, the capital of Cameroon, was just as bad as I thought it would be. Inside the airport, though, it was deceptively calm. Despite the equatorial, tropical heat of the city that left me dripping sweat, even at midnight, I felt that I had worried for nothing. Outside the airport, though, was exactly the D-Day scenario that I had envisioned. My volunteer coordinator and I had agreed to meet right after my flight had landed outside, with him holding a sign for me. But when I went outside--he wasn't there! Later, we found out that we had different understandings of time, and that he had thought that I would be coming the next day because he traditionally includes 12-1 in the morning as part of the previous day, and usually goes by the 24 hour system. He was actually in Douala at the time. But for the time being, I was very scared. Hoping he was just late, I waited outside for a while, while people begged me to exchange my money, buy a cell phone, "follow me to a comfortable spot", etc. Eventually, a policeman approached me and asked me if I was waiting for someone. He said that if he did not come soon, I would have to be taken in for "security reasons". Can't let that happen, now! So I found a van for a hotel, and left the airport as soon as I could. Because I thought he wasn't in Douala, I told my VC that I would take the bus to Bamenda the next day and meet him there. By the way, the hotel advertised its "enhanced security system". What was this high tech security they were talking about? On the road the the hotel, there was a large, busted wooden crate. Two men stood on either side of the road with ropes attached to the crate. They would keep the ropes loose when we passed, but when an intruder dared attempt entry? Bam! They pulled tight the ropes, and the road would be blocked! Completely foolproof!
Needless to say, I was glad to leave Douala, but the way I got to leave turned out to be very lucky, and really started off the amazing part of my trip so far. At the bus station, there was only one bus left, with one space left, and it was leaving in the mid-afternoon. It was the early morning now, and you had to sit in your spot on the bus to reserve it, which meant that I would have to sit in the bus, in the sizzling, melting heat of Douala's main market for many hours in a cramped, sweaty bus before finally leaving. Not so pleasant. Now, Douala has been described as bustling, vibrant, and pulsing. I definitely appreciate that; as the economic capital of Cameroon, it has the strongest heartbeat of any city I've ever been to. But it is also dirty, cramped, and loud, and driving through Douala's main market means that hundreds of people will run up to your car and tap on your window, asking you to buy their wares. It's not in a scary way, but you have to be on guard. Anyway, right when we got to the buses, the owner of the bus company was leaving in his own car to Bamenda as well, and he offered me a ride to Bamenda for the same price as the bus ticket. How could I turn that down?
The ride up to Bamenda was incredible. We passed through the heart of the rainforest, past primeval mountains draped in lush growth and shrouded in mist, with waterfalls cascading off their flanks like strings of pearls. It was also a bit of an adventure; although the road is one of Cameroon's biggest highways, it is a narrow, crumbling 2-lane affair that isn't always quite high enough, and the bumps were a little too high for the car, meaning we would scrape bottom every time we went over them. I could definitely recognize the poverty; I'm in the third world, after all. But almost none I saw was crippling; people had houses with tin roofs to go back to, with loving families and tables filled with food. Much of what we call poverty is simply the way of life. Some of the poverty I saw on the way up, though, was heartbreaking. Our car had to stop several times, to negotiate potholes or to pay a bribe to government agents at province border checkpoints to allow us to pass. Children, about 6-10 years old, who should have been in school, with swollen bellies and hungry eyes, would camp at these spots, run up to the stopped cars, and try to sell their wares. It really struck a chord in me.
Our driver bought about 40 pieces of some strange fruit from one of the children. The fruit was about 3 or 4 inches long, and looked like a short, blue zucchini. When I asked him what they were, he told me "plums-for friends". These were not plums. Nonetheless, I decided to try one; after all, if he bought so many, how could they be that bad? The "plums" tasted like sour, dead grass, with the chewing consistency of wine cork.
"They're good, right?"
"Yeah! They have a really sweet aftertaste." (The taste of my tongue sighing in relief)
Our driver had a reputation for being an extremely good driver. Apparently, in Africa, a good driver is one who can go extremely quickly without killing any of his passengers. Nonetheless, much better than the bus. Halfway through our drive, though, we got a little surprise. The driver's cell phone rang, and another passenger picked it up for him. The call was for me, from my VC! Godwin told me that as soon as he had gotten my email in Douala, he had run to the bus station, asking if anyone had seen a "tall, this white guy". Not the best description in Europe, but here, hey, it works wonders. I stick out like a sore thumb. From there, he somehow got the phone number of my driver and called; it's amazing how things work out sometimes, right? He told me that he had reserved a spot at the Bamenda Baptist rest house for me, and that this was the first time he had ever missed a volunteer and that he was truly sorry I had to navigate Douala.
Bamenda is a beautiful city, and one of the best I've seen here so far. It's nestled in a bowl of high, steep green mountains, with waterfalls cascading into the city. Bamenda itself has quite a bit of air pollution(I don't think a single car here would be street legal), but it is as alive as Douala, in nothing but a good way. Unlike Douala, it doesn't feel dangerous. During my night in Bamenda, the power went out three times, and last night, it went out again. Something I should probably get used to. The city was quiet by 8:45 at night, and I was pretty surprised, because once it cooled down after sunset I expected it to stay going very late, especially since I was on the main road. What I didn't realize, and what I regretted after going to bed at 11 that night, was that people go to bed so early because their day starts at 4. In. The. Morning! And here, that means honking at all the people you know, yelling across the street at friends, and generally doing your part to wake up whomever is not up already. AAAggghhh, jet lag! I met my VC, finally, at 6:45 that morning, on Friday, and we went around Bamenda running through all our essentials before we went to meet my host family. By noon, we were taking a bus to Njinikom up the Ring Road, an extraordinarily beautiful byway through the heart of Cameroon's red, volcanic Northwest Province. It's about a notch above the scenery on Pandora, from the movie Avatar :p. Anyway, I arrived at my host family 2 nights ago; my hour is up, so next time I will tell you about them and about the work I am doing. Tulaima! -John
June 23
"Ubanga" is the word for white man in Kom, the local tribal language spoken by about 160,000 people around Cameroon and Nigeria. Over the past week, I've heard that word shouted my way more often than any other. Hearing this so often, though, you have to know some retorts. Right now, the only retort, the only defense loaded into my chamber, is "ufumna", which means...black man! If I'm feeling especially stylish, I can say "eliufumna", which means "black people", in case I'm being hailed by a group of people. Today, someone in my host family taught me "migha ubanga nimgo", which means "I am his white man". A lot of good that will do... More often than not, though, they're amazed that I even know any Kom, and they smile in concession. On the other hand, while it's strange to get used to literally everyone treating me like some endangered species of rare tropical bird, I certainly don't mind it. It's a little entertaining, although when little kids follow me for half a mile, I start to feel like a guilty version of the pied piper.
My host family is one of the kindest groups of people I've ever met. It's a family of nine, with kids ranging from 22 year old Joel to 2 year old Godlove. An uncle's family living in the same compound, which brings the total to about 15 people in the house. Yet everyone there has welcomed me completely with the entirety of their hearts. They're honored that I came all the way from America, just to stay in their house, and they consistently refer to me as "Bobe John", a phrase of respect usually reserved for village elders.
There's definitely some strange differences that take some time getting used to. For starters, everyone in this community is easily more religious than anyone I've ever met. They pray together before and after every meal, after they wake up, and before they go to bed, and the town priest comes over almost every night(the church is right down the hill from us). About every other night, the whole family gets together to watch a movie. Not just any movie, though...the movies they watch hail from the mighty Nigerian film industry! Never heard of it? There's a reason for that. Nigerian films combine strange, socially conservative topics with overwhelming soap-opera acting, in which every line is shouted against a dramatic swell of music. So far, the most scandalous thing my family has done was watch a movie about a "celibate" catholic priest who enjoys sleeping around. ("Ha, ha!" laughed our mother, Anna. "He says he is celibate...but he is not! This is what happens to people without God!") It's also hard to get used to just how friendly everyone is here. Manners dictate that you greet everyone you meet with either "tulaima"(good morning) or "waichima(did you sleep well?), even the people you do not know.
I helped slaughter a chicken the other day for dinner. I know it had to be done, and I wouldn't have had a problem with it had it been done quickly and cleanly. But the traditional way to slaughter chickens here is to slit their throats so that they slowly bleed out. When I asked Joel why they didn't just quickly chop off its head, he told me that "that would make the chicken look like it had committed suicide, and that wouldn't be Christian." I guess they have a different idea of Christianity here, but it still doesn't seem right to me.
When I came here, I was planning to mostly spend my time at the school, helping kids with reading and teaching math, with some time spent planting trees for a reforestation project. I've noticed a pretty major problem in my community, though, and I think I have the tools to fix it. Everyone here cooks their food over an open fire inside their homes. The homes do not have chimneys, and the fires are often left going at night, which means that many people here have hacking coughs and breathing problems, even small children. Fortunately, my involvement at Dartmouth College in HELP(Humanitarian Engineers Leadership Program)during the past year has taught me about the Rocket Stove, a design for a wood stove that burns half as much fuel as a normal fire, does not waste any heat, and is completely smokeless. More importantly, it is very easy to build. Joel and I gave demonstrations to 2 groups of widows the past 2 days, and we got 20 of them to sign up, saying they wanted the new stove. I think that if I spread this through the community, I can help stop these breathing problems and really improve the lives of these people, all with just a simple stove. It's really exciting how such a simple thing can have such a big effect. So after I send this,we will try to build our first permanent stove.
Well that's my hour for today, but I will be back soon, with more from Njinikom! -John
June 25
Peace Corps volunteers never know where in the world they will be
assigned. They provide a list of their skills and the languages they
speak, and then they are sent somewhere to work for two years. If a
Peace Corps volunteers were assigned here, though, they couldn't be more
luckier. This is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, the
people speak English, and everyone is incredibly friendly.
I've taught two classes so far at CREN, the Center for Rehabilitation
and Education in Njinikom, both as a substitute teacher. The first
time, the teacher asked me to sub for her, but the second time, I was
supposed to be observing a class and the teacher simply didn't show
up, so I taught. CREN has a long way to go as a school. Only the
secondary school children know how to read, and they can't read with
much comprehension. The teachers generally aren't very effective
either. I've never taught before(except violin lessons), but when I subbed for both eachers,
the CREN director told me that I was way better than the normal teachers,
who assume that they can make the children learn by simply telling
them what the lesson is. The after school "music club" is also a bit
of a joke. The teacher gives about 15 kids bells, rattles, and
drums(CREN is stenciled on the drums, but the N is backwards), and
sings religious songs to them while they hit the instruments as they
please. The end result is somewhere between a baptist revival and a
load of pots falling on the ground. The weirdest part about classes at
CREN, though, is the devotional at the end. CREN is sponsored by a
woman from the US, and so a long poem of thanks is written on one of
the blackboards in the classroom. Before leaving, every student must
sing this poem of praise to the sponsor. It's like being in a weird
parallel universe, and I know the sponsor wouldn't be proud if she saw
what was really going on at this school. So I'm going to do what I can
to change the culture of the school, to make it so kids actually have
the ability to learn there. Right now, they do not.
I've also started building a tree nursery with my volunteer
coordinator and a few other people. It's tough work, because we need
to level a hillside and pack all the dirt we unearth into little pots
to plant the trees. Eventually, though, we'll use it as a base to
educate kids on the importance of trees to the environment. I've told
Godwin about the Moringa tree, and he seems very interested, so if we
find out that it will grow well here, we will plant that as well. (The Moringa tree as tasty,
edible leaves loaded with vitamins and minerals. The dried berries, when powdered,
purify water without boiling, saving on fuel).
We built our first Rocket Stove a few days ago, in the back of our
house. Our prototype is almost good enough to replicate, but not quite. We made it
too big, so not enough heat from the fire is getting to the food, and
the hole at the bottom needs to be bigger to allow more wood and air
into the fire. When the fire was going, though, it worked beautifully,
producing almost no smoke, and every time I go into my family's
cooking shed to get something, my lungs and eyes tell me just how much
the people here need a smokeless stove. See, because tin roofing is
difficult enough to install here without cutting a hole for a chimney,
and because it rains so often here, people just have their cooking
fires inside, often with wet, smoky wood, in a house without a
chimney. Most people also sleep and live in the same room as this
fire, meaning they are breathing lungfuls of thick smoke every minute
of every day. As a result, even the smallest children have horrible,
hacking coughs; you can almost hear the tar in their lungs. It doesn't
have to be this way, and I'm lucky that I know an easy, efficient
solution.
Now, a lot of people have been calling me "noble" for doing this. What
people forget, though, and what I even have trouble remembering
sometimes, is that people live here and often spend their whole lives
in this tiny corner of the world. Many people here have not been
outside Cameroon, or to Douala, or even to Bamenda, two hours away.
I'm just a transient, and they will keep going on here long after I
leave, which is hard to remember sometimes because everything is so
different. If I felt noble for doing this, though, it would just be
the worst kind of arrogance. Should I assume that I, a visitor just
dropping in for the summer, am automatically better at doing anything
than the people who have lived here their whole lives, that I am
somehow "helping them"? Do they not have enough bodies here to help
out already, that they need extra labor from foreign countries? I'm
honestly only here to experience firsthand what I hear about in class
or on the news, nothing more. It's so I know exactly what the situation is in
many parts of the world like this, and what the greatest needs are
here. And it's an opportunity to live life at its closest to the bone,
without anything between life and my experience of it. It's the
opportunity to live every day as it might have been a thousand years ago.
I climbed Boyo Hill the other day, the highest point in its namesake
division. Boyo Hill is no hill. It rises about 2000 muddy feet above
Njinikom, and the trail goes straight up the side. This can get
especially interesting if it starts to rain while you are on the
mountain. Some people actually live high on the mountain, over a
thousand feet above the town; to get anything from town, they must
trek down from their thatched cottages perched on the hillside and
then haul their goods the thousands of feet back up to their homes. It
must be a hard life up there, even by African standards. The view from
the top, though, is amazing. I could see to Bamenda, and even all the
way to what I think must be Nigeria.
The bananas here are so cheap. Seriously. A banana at Dartmouth costs
about 80 cents; that's around 420 CFA here. A bunch of about 20
bananas here costs 100 CFA; it makes living on a dollar a day seem
very doable. Depending, of course, just how much you liked bananas,
and how much potassium your body could stand.
Now, Africa is a land of contrasts. It has the world's largest desert
and the world's deepest rainforest. It has the most natural resources
of any continent, yet it is the world's poorest. So far, it's shown me
a lot of promise and opportunity, and there's no place like it to
be--when you're occupied. When you're not, it's very good at driving
you crazy.
Last Saturday, when it was raining, several people from my family came
into the main room and watched a Christmas karaoke tape for two hours.
Don't get me wrong...but isn't right now as far from Christmas as you
can get? Then again, maybe they just really like Christmas music here.
They keep asking me to play Christmas carols on the violin, so that
should have tipped me off.
The baby, Godlove, hates me with a passion. When I look at him, he
scowls, bursts into tears and runs away as quickly as he can(which is
honestly really funny). When I'm not looking, he sneaks up behind me
to throw rocks at me, without wearing anything, so I'm being chased by
a naked baby trying to knock me out David-Goliath style. And when
other kids in the family hold him so I can try to say hi to him, he
bites their arms and makes them let go. Godlove is a demon child.
Godlove may be possessed by the devil!
I might have saved my family from a bit of a financial catastrophe. Joel, the
oldest, is currently applying to technical schools, where he will
train to be a carpenter. One day, he pulled me aside and asked me to
explain the American lottery to him. I told him that it wasn't a good
idea to enter it, that the chances of winning are so slim as to be
zero, and he seemed a little relieved. The father, a deaf, diabetic
old man with a malfunctioning hearing aid, asked me the same question
over dinner the same night, It turned out that he had been encouraging
his son to enter the lottery, as his best chance to provide for the
family! I'm glad I straightened that out with them; it would have made
a great news story if they had won, but really, what would have
happened instead?
My family in general, though, has been really incredible and
hospitable. I've really admired both their resolve and their
commitment to make me feel at home. I'm really starting to settle into
the groove of life here, to get used to the way things work here, and
despite the cries of "Ubanga!" echoing off the distant hillsides, I'm
finally feeling like I belong here. And besides, the people in my
family are excellent cooks. I must learn how to make Fufu before I go
back to the US.
July 2
First of all, happy birthday, mom, and dad, happy late father's day!
My gifts for you guys will have to wait until August, but I hope these can
keep you going for a while.
I know I'm going crazy because I'm starting to like the "plums". They're
disgusting when they're raw, but when you cook them, they taste like sour
asparagus, with a limp, pasty texture not unlike watery mashed potatoes.
Good, eh? I'll have to remember to bring some back for you guys,
because I know you'll enjoy them as much as I do.
I met my first white person today. Her name is Christine, and she's a
Peace Corps volunteer who's been working on microfinance here for a
year. Besides her, though, the only white people I've seen have been a
whole family of albino people just up the road. Do they count, I
wonder? It's strange to stick out so much, to be constantly aware of
my skin color. In fact, I think that a goat even called me "Ubanga"
the other day. It was a definite "baaaa" sound, but it had a U at the
beginning and a slight GA sound at the end.
I've made friends with two very welcoming people in town so far.
Last week, as I was walking along the muddy dirt road to the tree
nursery, a shop owner with a black cap and an ear-to-ear smile flagged
me down and invited me in. His name was santoni, and he rhapsodized
for ages on his love for vsitors. In particular, he wouldn't stop
talking about Florin, a German gynecologist who had worked here for 6
months several years ago and whom Santoni still kept in close contact
with. At the end of our conversation, Santoni gave me a glistening red
fruit from his garden and invited me to stop by anytime. In fact, he
said he'd consider it an honor. The next day, I ducked inside his shop
to take shelter from a huge rainstorm, where he greeted me with the
biggest smile I've ever seen, sat me down with his adorable little
daughter and niece, and brought me a plate of rice, corn, and fish!
While waiting out the storm, we watched a Chinese movie on the little
TV in the corner of his shop. And what a movie! It featured a Chinese
guy named Yellow kung-fuing and jiu-jitsuing his way through the
Indians and saloons of the wild American west. I wasn't quite sure
what his purpose was, but next to Nigerian movis, it would have won
Best Picture. Since then, I've seen him every day as I walked to work,
and we've talked about adjusting to life here, discussed previous
volunteers and even shared a glass of gin together. It couldn't have
worked out better.
As I was walking back home from the movie with Santoni, another guy
stopped me on the road to shake my hand, a toothpick dangling
dangerously from his lower lip. His name was Mathias, he talked with
the speed of a jackhammer, and he had been seeing me around and wanted
to learn more about me. Remember, I don't exactly fit in here. It
turned out that Mathias was a Professor of Geography in Yaounde,
specializing in development and natural resource management. What do
you know-my field! So he's been stopping by the house, and we've been
having some really interesting discusions. I'm really looking forward
to getting to know him better. Maybe we'll watch a Nigerian movie
together?
Then again, one can't have "friends" here, because everyone, the
entire village, is your friend. Even walking down the road, someone
will stop me, shake my hand, greet me in the local dialect, and gently
laugh and correct the inevitable mistake in my response before
offering me a few helpful tips on the language. It's a real turnaround
from the West, where people generally shy away from and ignore
strangers.
I'm hoping that Africa, through people like Santoni and Mathias, can
help me move more toward that welcoming mindset. When I'm meeting new
people, if they're too friendly and outgoing, I can get standoffish
and even condescending, and I hate myself when that happens. But
people here have helped me realize that even if I feel strange around
a new friend, I should just keep seeing them for the simple reason
that they enjoy my company. That's not hard, right?
With as much free time as I have here, I've finally gotten around to
reading Anna Karenina, which I false-started during the school year.
Last night, two of the characters raised a very interesting issue to
me.Levin argued that passion in work can only come from something in
which one has personal, vested interest, while Sergei asserted that all
educated people must help the common good.
This naturally leads to the importance, especially today, of making
the world's problems your problems. It is only in this way that
educated people like us can both address the importance of helping the
common good and do so with passion and heart. Yet I can't help but
wonder if all development work is really meant to serve the people it
is meant for. Whose interests does it really serve?
I've met friendlier people here than I've ever met, in my whole life.
More importantly, they are happy, much happier than anyone in the
developed world. I'd have a hard time finding anyone like them in the
US, our country of quiet desperation. They are happy because they are
drunk with the irrefutable essence of life, and full to the brim with
vitality. In fact, we'd do well to recognize that in a way, people
here lead a better quality of life than our own. Now, there's no
question that services are still desperately needed here. The most
important are undoubtedly water quality, malnutrition and public
health, followed closely by effective education, a stable economy and
a government that actually serves its people. But the final goal of
much development work seems to be to turn the developing world into an
outpost of the US, which would be nothing short of a heinous and
unforgivable crime. At what point, must we ask, does overdevelopment
begin to suck out the blood that makes a place pulse with life, at
what point toes it begin to turn a place into a shell of its former
self? It makes me wonder if the goal of much development is really to
solve the world's problems, or just to remedy what they perceive those
problems to be. If it's the second case, this attempt to "help" is
really no more than the worst kind of arrogant Western self-interest.
"What's red, white blue and covered in gold? The USA!" The happiness
that pervades this place does not prevent many young people from
dreaming about working in the US or Europe, although most maintain
that they would return to Cameroon after making enough to support
themselves and their family. Many still have the misconception that
the US is a perfect country, heaven on Earth, with streets paved with
gold, especially after Obama's election. Obama is almost
cult-worshipped here. Yet although there are some very rigorous
universities in Cameroon and many great opportunities in the country,
they pale next to what is available in the US. This is especially
compounded here because the Anglophones of the Northwest are
discriminated against in university and job applications. To achieve
their goals of going abroad, many students enter a lottery sponsored
by a foreign organization. Winners get to travel to the country of
their choice, where the lottery helps them get permanent legal
residence and a job suited to their education and skill. However, this
lottery strikes me as both patronizing and exploitative. After all,
those running the lottery must make a profit, right? In an ideal
world, students could find opportunities in Cameroon equally as good
as those abroad, and would give them the mobility they desire and that
we have. But with the innate flaw in development I've discussed, how
does a country reach that point without losing its life force or
destroying its environment? Again, there's no easy answer.
I've had a lot of people ask me about the family I'm staying with. I'm
moving into the new house in a few days (where I'll finally have a
little peace!), but I'll run through them.
Grandma is the oldest in the family, at 71. She's a real relic of an
old woman, with traditional dress, wrinkled leather skin, and horn
rimmed glasses the size of coke bottles. I haven't been able to learn
much about her because she speaks only Kom, but I'm sure she has some
fantastic stories, and I'd love to hear them. I'll have to remember to
get someone to translate.
Next is Bobe Peter, the 61 year old father and the head of the house.
An expensive foot surgery made it difficult for him to walk, and
diabetes ravaged his body and made him hard of hearing. He puts in an
ancient hearing aid whenever he talks to someone, but whenever the
hearing aid is even slightly tilted, it produces a piercing whistle
somewhere between a teapot and a detuned radio. He eats every meal
with me, and he engages me in interesting conversations every time,
but they usually devolve into shouted words and phrases from both
sides over the whine of the hearing aid. Nonetheless, I really respect
Bobe Peter for his ability to keep his massive family upright, no
matter how difficult the storm and despite his own troubles.
inheritance here is not from father to son, but from uncle to cousin,
meaning that after Peter's death, the house and all his property will
go to his nephew Robert. Robert's a solid guy, but if he ever has
problems with Peter's family, they will not have a place to live. To
prevent this from happening, Peter is building a house at the edge of
his land which his family will be able to live in if it has to. When
he completes it, he'll use it for the time being to house volunteers,
as a source of rent income. And he's been doing this while balancing
his children's education and his own health. It's quite impressive.
Next comes 52 year old Anna, the mother, an incredibly dynamic woman
and a force of nature. She does a lot of work with BERUDEP, and she
has the confident disposition of someone who has semingly never heard
the word "no." Everyone in the town knows, respects and loves her, for
good reason. She's also taken to calling me her son, which I kind of
like.
Three children have grown up and left the house already. The oldest
son is now a priest in Baiso, an isolated and remote village in the
middle of the rain forest without road access, and the two oldest
daughters are now living in Yaounde. One actually just gave birth to a
child this week. The oldest son now living in the house is Joel, 26(He
gives his age as 22, though, because in primary school he would have
been too old to enter). He's a really affable, likable guy who is
currently in Bamenda taking his entrance exams for technical school.
He longs to be a carpenter, and he's already better than his teachers.
If he gets into the technical school, all his classes will be taught
in French, so we've been practicing our French together often. It can
be confusing, but quite fun.
Suzanne, who's 15, is a bit of an enigma to me. For starters, I'm not
etirely sure she speaks English(which is called "grammar" here; most
communication is either in Kom or Cameroonian Pidgin English, which is
almost unintelligible). She's the one who is obsessed with Christmas
carols, and she'll sing them all day as she pounds her fist to the
beat. She also subscribes to the common notion that electronics work
better if you hit them, which gets grating when the VCD player stops
working.
When Florin, the German, stayed here four years ago, he brought a
chess set and taught Joel how to play. Now that the Chess set has been
brought out again, all the younger children made me teach them how to
play. Now, I'm pressed into playing at least 4 games a day with them.
At the beginning, it was painful because I'd have to correct every one
of their moves, but now it's getting much better. They haven't beaten
me yet, but they're getting closer.
Joy, 11, is Peter's niece, but she's an orphan, so his family took her
in. She's a really bright kid, the smartest in the family, and she
gives me the most problems in Chess. Her enthusiasm is contagious, and
she has the most unique laugh I've ever heard, a goony guffaw that
sounds like a balloon letting out air.
I tend to confuse Milton, 10, and Sed, 9, because they're basically
the same person. They're always smiling, they always want to play
Chess with me, and they're always running outside playing games with
their siblings. The next youngest at 7, Mingness(have to check the
spelling), is Anna's oldest grandchild. She can be a bit grabby out of
curiosity, but she's quiet, cheerful and deceptively smart.
And then there's Godlove, the 18 month old hurricane. Not much more
needs to be said of him. Yesterday, he mooned me and tried to bite me,
but he also waved bye-bye to me, so maybe I'm making progress?
Teaching classes at CREN is like watching an asteroid hurtling toward
the Earth. It combines a feeling of horrible inevitability, the belief
that its students are hurling themselves towards a bleak future, with
a sense of complete helplessness as to my ability to change that
outcome. The culture at that school is broken at every level. The sole
duty of CREN's director, a slightly deranged, hunchbacked woman named
Edith, seems to be to sit in the corner of the room and eat bananas.
The teachers can not teach, are not aware that they can not teach, and
ths have a kind of smug self-satisfaction about their "good" work. And
the students, who can not receive any semblance of an education there,
have simply stopped caring. I subbed for a class on Tuesday. The
teacher had given me a bunch of bananas instead of a lesson plan, so I
skimmed through CREN's meager library and decided to read the first
chapter of 1984 to the students, asking them easy questions along the
way. These were secondary school kids, ages 13-16; this shouldn't be a
problem, right?
That assumption proved horribly wrong. The student's weren't able to
answer even the simplest questions I could think of, , and they spent
most of the time just laughing at their stumped classmates and
stealing the one pen floating around in the room. I get that I was a
sub, and I'm supposed to be a little jostled around. I made teaching
an adventure for my subs too in school. But this was different. For
example:
"Winston found that, during his daydream, he had printed the words:
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
Over and over again in large, neat capital letters, filling half a
page of the diary."
Q: "Does Winston like Big Brother?"
A: "uhhh...uhhh.......uhhhhhhh"(pause of 30 seconds)
"OK, I'll rephrase it-you can do it! He's practically shouting "DOWN
WITH BIG BROTHER" at the page. Do you think, then, that he likes Big
Brother?"
"uhhhh........uhhhhhhh............yes?"
That was just one student. But every student was like that, and all my
questions were that easy. They couldn't have been easier. What kind of
educations have they gotten so far, if they couldn't even answer
those? What's scarier is that this is an extra program for kids who
wish to enhance their education. It's only based on voluntary
attendance. What are those students like who don't want to attend
school? I understand that the most important virtue of a teacher is
patience, now more than ever. But patience only goes so far, and it
doesn't do anything when there's no support from the other side. I'm
getting to the end of my rope with this school. There's nothing more
frustrating than asking a question, especially one like that, and
getting a stare in response. Nothing, at all.
These kids are being set up to be used by the world, like hand puppets
or pickaxes, and they're not only acquiescing to it, they're sitting
back and watching it happen. In the US, maybe you can keep a living
without the ability to think for yourself. But out here, on the edge
of the world? Is that possible?
The rocket stoves have been a little finicky. For a while, the fire
wasn't getting big enough to cook with, and we couldn't keep it going.
But we've ironed out those problems, and we're finally ready to start
building more. HELP also sent me the manual for them, which will be
helpful. We'll build our first on Monday, for one of the widows, and
then it'll be full steam!
So finally, in closing, because the drinking age is 18 here, I had my
first legal beer. I feel old.
Ibusaiyu'wo! -John
PS: Dad. When we get back, we'll go to a Padres game. eh? And when I
get back, I want to eat as much meat as I can handle. You get a little
sick of starch and bananas after a while.
July 16
News From the Front!
If I ever become a war correspondent, I'll make that the title of all
my reports. Anyway:
Q: How do you fit five people on a motorcycle?
A: Go to Africa.
Q: How do you fit nine people in a compact, including two in the driver's seat?
A: Live in Africa.
Using transport here can be quite an adventure. Usually, a poor man
who uses his taxi service to support his whole family crams as many
passengers into his tiny car as he can for each trip, with spectacular
results. I probably had my most memorable trip last week, a half hour
puddle jump between Njinikom and Belo. I was squeezed right next to
the door in a crowded rust bucket of a Toyota Corolla, with four
people in the front and five in the back. Right next to me, a mother
was nursing her baby. Now, that would have been a normal transport(the
need for seat belts is obviously eliminated since if there's a crash,
there are so many people in the car that nobody will go anywhere
anyway), except that the latch on that door I was squeezed next to
didn't quite work. This meant that if I pressed against the door too
hard, it had a nasty propensity to swing obligingly open. So I
squeezed myself even tighter into the mass of people to keep from
falling out. This, combined with the normal complimentary cardboard
driver's window, broken manual door cranks and jury-rigged tape
player, made for one of my most luxurious car rides ever.
Of course, I'm not lucky enough to have that happen all the time, but
I've been having good luck with some of my projects. For those of you
who haven't heard of it, the small, stunted Moringa Tree is a plant
native to the foothills of the Indian Himalayas, but now indigenous to
much of East, Central and West Africa thanks to its ability to thrive
in tropical and sub-tropical climates. This tree is remarkable,
though, for two reasons. First, when its seeds are ground into a
powder and sprinkled into dirty, unpurified water, the seed powder
reduces the number of bacteria in the water by over 99%, along with a
high percentage of heavy metals. The tree's leaves are also extremely
nutritious, containing 4 times the calcium and twice the protein in
milk, 7 times the vitamin C in oranges, 3 times the potassium in
Bananas, 3 times the iron in spinach, and 4 times the vitamin A in
carrots. It's therefore often used for emergency nutrition and water
treatment in famine zones and refugee camps. Local languages across
the world reflect an almost divine respect for this tree, with names
ranging from "the tree that came from Mecca"(Senegal) to "the tree
that never dies"(Hausa language).
Yet even though the Moringa tree would most likely thrive here in the
Northwest of Cameroon, and even though a definite need exists for it
in the most rural areas, absolutely nobody here has heard of the
tree.So with a little luck, I found out that the Cameroon director for
Medicines for Humanity works at the Catholic hospital down the road,
and his specialty is actually water purification. I paid a visit to
him to ask about the issues around water purification here in
Njinikom. He told me that his group had set water catchments high in
the surrounding hills to serve as a water source, but that many of
these were still being polluted by unknown sources. So he was thrilled
when I told him about the tree, and we sent an email to an NGO dealing
specifically with the tree, Trees For Life, to ensure that the tree
would grow here and ask for some sample seeds. The Moringa definitely
isn't a final solution for water purification here, but it can be an
immediate, sustainable solution high in the Oku hills, and its
strength at combating malnutrition makes it invaluable by itself.
The real magic here is that the organization I'm working for, African
Roots, is dedicated mainly to planting trees and protecting the
environment, while giving the poor a source of income through the
trees. The people at the hospital have been trying to find a way to
purify the water in the most remote areas, but they've been stumped so
far, and here's a solution for both groups. If they worked together,
would that be anything less than a match made in heaven?
The Rocket Stoves are also going quite well. We built our first stove
for a widow, the most destitute group in the community thanks to the
medieval inheritance laws, last week. Unfortunately, the machinist who
would build the metal trays is an illiterate who only speaks a Pidgin
I can't understand. We've been working with him directly so he gets
the first tray right, after which we'll have him build the rest of the
trays. Yet the sample trays he's been churning forth have all been
wrong, although some are amazingly creative in how they cleverly avoid
the instructions we gave him. He's getting closer to what we need,
though, and we should be able to start making the stoves on a large
scale by next week.
And then there's my 25 year old Austrian roommate, Florian (pronounced
Florin). At first glance, he's the prototype of the rebellious young
European, with a skier's tree-trunk legs, long blond hair tied into a
ponytail, and a goatee to match. In fact, despite the beard, many
people here think he's a girl. But he's a really fun, interesting guy
with some great stories. He's currently working on a Magister's
(similar to a Master's) in Political Science at the University of
Innsbruck, but in between taking classes, and thanks to the low
tuition of the university, he's traveled the world with his best
friend. To start with, and also to placate their parents, they only
went to safe places in Europe like Switzerland, Spain, Hungary, and
Istanbul. Gradually, though, they've branched out all over the world.
He's traveled the back country of Thailand, Laos and Cambodia,
visiting not the typical tourist sites, but what nobody besides the
locals ever sees. He's spent three weeks in Mali, including a night
sleeping on the sands of Timbuktu. For three more weeks, he
investigated firsthand the aftermath of the diamond war in Sierra
Leone, one of the world's poorest countries. And his next destination
with his friend will be the military dictatorship of Myanmar; God
knows how he'll manage that one. His most memorable trip, though, was
a three week jaunt to Uzbekistan with the same friend. He traveled all
across the country, hitchhiking some places, taking buses some others.
In some remote villages, he was the first outsider to come through in
almost a decade. Never mind that neither of them spoke Russian; to get
places, they wrote the name of their destinations on cards which they
showed to their drivers. When they needed to sleep, they would knock
on the door of a peasant's house, press their hands together, and lean
their head on their hands, asking for a place to sleep through simple
gestures. By traveling the world as he has, going to the places where
nobody else goes, he's attained an acute understanding of the enormous
problems associated with development, and he's come to work in
Cameroon to try to find out exactly what those problems are.
Last Saturday, Leo, Florian and I trekked from Belo, to Lake Oku, and
back to Belo, a distance of at least 15 miles and probably more. We
started at 4 am, for we had over 4000 vertical feet to ascend and
descend, and we wanted to finish before the afternoon rains started.
This was, without a doubt, the hardest hike I've ever gone on, but it
was completely worth it. We went up, up, up into the mountains, beyond
the highest corn fields and beyond the highest thatched huts, into the
pristine and untouched mountain forest reserve. From there, we kept
going, to the top of one impossibly high mountain until we saw
another, and we kept on going up. As soon as it seemed as we were
about to reach the top of Mount Oku itself(we weren't; that would have
been another 2000 feet up), we crossed the rim of the volcanic crater
that holds Lake Oku, and edged down the narrow, wind-whipped ledge of
a trail into the jungle surrounding the lake, where we promptly got
lost and spent 45 minutes hacking through the forest and looking for a
way to the lake. It's a good place to be lost, the heart of darkness.
Nonetheless, we found the lake, took a quick swim in its sacred
waters, and used its rare blessings to somehow find our way back to
the trail again right before the torrential rains started. Don't
worry-I have lots of pictures! But for a few days afterward, I could
barely even walk from that hike. This Saturday, we've decided to do
something a little less strenuous. We'll go to Menchum Falls, the
flagship spot in the Northwest, and on our way back we'll see Bafut
Palace, one of the Northwest's greatest cultural sites.
That's Cameroon for now, but I'll be back soon with another update!
Love, -John
Date: Tue, 27 Jul 2010 13:37:22 -0400 (EDT)Date: Tue, 27 Jul 2010 13:37:22 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: John the Monk (John Biberman '13)
July 27
Hi all,
While it seems like I'm working every spare moment from the previous
emails I've sent, I can assure you that this hasn't been true.
Partially because African Roots is still starting up, and partially
because the rainy season only allows a few hours of work each day, I
often find long stretches of time with nothing to do. Unlike back
home, we don't have an internet to surf or Sudoku puzzles to fill
out, so I've gradually adopted the life of a monk out here. It really
makes you appreciate all those men-of-the-frock in the middle ages who
copied down the bible and the ancient classical texts-it's hard work,
especially with having to pray five times a day and not being allowed
to talk!
Really though, it's good to have the chance to be away from all those
distractions, and even be forced to do something else, because the
only thing I have left to do during those long hours is improving
myself. Every day, I read for probably around four hours. I've already
finished all the books I brought (Me Talk Pretty One Day, Dead Aid, The
Tender Bar, Mountains Beyond Mountains, Anna Karenina, Catch-22,
Hawaii, and Wonderland Avenue), so I've moved on to borrowing
Florian's books. Right now, I'm working my way through Nelson
Mandela's autobiography. I also keep a journal for an hour or two each
day, and practice the violin every day for about half an hour. The
most stimulating thing I've been doing out here in my free time,
though, has been studying French, which I do for at least an hour each
day. Studying French can involve talking with fluent speakers here and
responding in the best pidgin French I can muster, making vocabulary
flashcards, or working on grammar, reading comprehension, and
translation exercises in a textbook that a friend lent to me. In many
ways it's frustrating because it shows me how far in the language I
have to go. Especially for listening! Oh, spoken French is not kind to
me. But it's also exciting, because I've gone a long way this summer.
If I keep it up, I have no doubt that by the time I emerge from the
LSA+ in Toulouse in March, I'll be fluent in the language.
The rocket stoves have been going quite well. The machine shop finally
got the tray right, and we finally lit the first stove for a widow.
Now, my job is to back off and let BERUDEP begin to handle the project
on their own. That has proven difficult, however, because of the
colonial mindset that is still so pervasive here. Many of the BERUDEP
staff were astonished that I did not intend to both buy all the cement
for the stoves and personally oversee the construction of each one, as
if I never had to go home! The most important thing I can do for the
project now is step back and allow it to become self-sustainable. But
as Mandela notes in his book, the inferiority complex often makes
racism a self fulfilling prophecy, and many people here are simply not
willing to believe that their people can handle anything on their own.
One person told me completely candidly that while white people had
brought the world into modernity, black people had never accomplished
anything. Someone else asserted that apartheid was the only reason
that South Africa was the powerhouse it is today. Against such a
self-defeating mindset, how is it possible to accomplish anything.
Then again, Cameroon, where the currency is backed by, guaranteed by
and even named after France, where the vast majority of exports go to
France, and where the economic policies of the EU help keep the country in
poverty, remains colonized in all but name.
In my last email, I said that I would be going by Menchum Falls and
the Bafut Palace that Saturday. I wasn't able to go on that trip,
though, because I thought I might have food poisoning! So I got to be
a monk even more than I would have otherwise. The next day, I still felt
a bit weak, but to make up for my lost day, Florian and I decided to climb
the Mbingo cliffs near Belo.
As we waded into the high grasses off the road, we decided, like
good Boy Scouts adhering to the buddy system, to separate and meet at
the top of the cliffs. Oops! We soon realized, after we had lost each
other, that there was no trail up, and that we would be bushwhacking
our whole way to the top. The last I saw of Florian, he had gone far
ahead of me, slowly pulling himself up the rocks scattered among the
steep hillside. Soon, I was lost in the tall grass on the hillside,
which reached well over my head, and the only directions were up and
down. It also wasn't very easy to go either way, because the blades of
the grass were covered with tiny razors that gave you a rash wherever
you touched them and cut your skin. So I kept on wading uphill, until
I ran into a rock wall that I couldn't surmount. I scrambled through
the stinging grass, across the precipitous slope, to a relatively bare
spot, where I saw that I had hiked myself into a cul de sac with
cliffs surrounding me on all sides. Florian eventually told me that he
had made his way to the top and waited for me for a few hours before
he decided to let me fend for myself and wandered down. But he must
have found a different way than me, because with rain clouds
gathering, I had to consider an emergency way down. So I trudged up a hill,
hopped a barbed wire fence with the help of a tree, and slid down
through the mud of a farm, following a stream back to civilization.
Bear Grylls taught me well. When I reached the bottom of the hill, I
hacked my way through cornfields, accidentally walked
into several people's backyards (Ubanga!!) and finally found my way
back to the road.
My trip actually worked out better than Florian's, especially because
it never decided to rain. He may have gotten to the top of the cliffs,
which was really all fine and dandy. But as soon as I got to the road,
a motorcyclist pulled over and offered me a lift back to Belo. Kenneth
turned out to be a really great guy, and not only for the lift and our
interesting conversation about both his travels through Africa and
Cameroon's situation. As soon as we arrived in Belo, he got me a beer,
introduced me to all his friends, and even got me a little grilled
meat before inviting me to come to his house some time. And really,
now, meat is all I need to be happy out here! Would I be able to
find people like that, so consistently, anywhere else in the world?
Our trip to the Mbingo cliffs may have been interesting, but our trip
to Mt. Oku surpassed it in every way. Mt. Oku is the second highest
mountain in West Africa, and when the top is not shrouded in cloud,
one can likely see all the way to Nigeria and across the entire
Northwest.
We allotted two days for our trip up Mt. Oku, because the village of
Oku is in a remote location and is served by unserviceable dirt roads
that are almost to steep to drive on. Cameroon's Prime Minister is
from Oku, but for some reason, he hasn't found it in his heart to pave
the road to his own village, which is so desperately needed. So we
climbed into our crowded bus in Bamenda, and set off, climbing steeply
from the grassland of the valley into the fog shrouded heights of the
mountains. The dirt roads were fairly good going to Oku, until we hit
a little obstacle. A road crew had dug a six foot wide, ten foot deep
ditch across the entire road, and for some reason, had abandoned the
project before putting in a drainage pipe and filling the ditch back
up. To cross the ditch, a "bridge" had been installed along the side,
but what this bridge actually consisted of was about 5 loose wooden
planks, carelessly laid across the trench. There was thick mud on
either side of the trench, so it wouldn't have been possible to gun
the engine and shoot across the gap; we had to test the bridge. So we
all got out, because the bridge might not have been able to hold up
the bus. We watched anxiously as the bus somehow made it across the
makeshift span, but groaned when the bus immediately got mired in the
thick mud on the other side. For some reason, not only was the bus
rear wheel drive only, but it had been outfitted with tires that were
completely, utterly bald. To get the bus unstuck, we had to dismantle
the bridge. We put one long plank under each tire, to provide
traction, and everyone got to the back of the bus and started pushing.
At first, the wheels just spun and smoked, but we eventually got the
bus unstuck, and after a long day of travel, we finally arrived in Oku
at 8:30 at night.
Nonetheless, we never actually managed to climb Mt. Oku. Why?
Corruption. We traveled with Edwin, Godwin's brother in law, who has
worked with tourists before and is very knowledgeable about all the
ins and outs of his country. The last time he had gone to Mt. Oku, in
2007, the only requirements to climb the mountain were to present a
goodwill gift to the Oku Fon, as a goodwill gift, and to go with one
guide, which cost 5000 CFA(about 10 dollars, which is quite expensive
here). But the rug had been pulled out from under his feet; for
"development" reasons, the system had changed. Now, one had to follow
a complicated procedure to climb the mountain. Before seeing the Fon,
one now has to contribute 5000 to the construction of his new palace.
Then, you must present him with a gift like a bottle of whiskey, but
the gift would be considered an insult if its worth was less than
5000. From the Fon, we would be directed to the "Tourism Office"(a
stand in a back alleyway) to register our names, for a "donation" of
5000. From the Tourism Office, we would be directed right next door to
the Park Office, also to register our names for 5000 Francs, and we
would finally go to the Oku Council, where we would register our names
for the last time for a (let's call it what it is) final bribe of 5000
Francs. Only then would we be allowed to hire a mandatory guide for
5000 Francs, but inexplicably, Oku now required a guide for each
person to walk up the clearly defined road to the top of the mountain,
meaning we would need to hire 3 guides. We refused to do any of this,
partially because we didn't have the money, but mostly on principle.
They justified their fees on the basis of development, but really, is
scaring visitors away a good way to develop? The most inexcusable part
for me was that if the government had done the same thing, it would be
labeled as rampant corruption, but at Oku, it was done under the flag
of "tradition" and all but ignored. We left town on the next bus we
could find.
On the 2009 Corruption Perceptions Index, Cameroon ranks a dismal 2.2
out of 10, 146th out of 180 countries and the same as Robert Mugabe's
Zimbabwe. For reference, the highest country was New Zealand, at 9.4,
the worst was Somalia, at 1.1, and the US indexed a 7.5. Accordingly,
like the colonial mindset, corruption invades every sector of both
public and private life here. For every car, the government requires
both a "windshield license" and a "mirror license". Don't have a
driver's license, or have you been caught trying to pack nine people
in your car? Just pay a 500 Franc bribe to the armed Gendarme with the
red beret on the side of the road, and everything will go away. It's
often said, in fact, that a driver's license is 500 francs. And you
had better have that money, too, because if you don't, even if you
haven't done anything wrong, the gendarme will savagely beat you on
the side of the road. Godwin even had to surmount corruption when
getting a passport for his daughter. He had to actually go straight to
the government passport office in Yaounde, where he was told he was
entering a "classified installation" and had to "give a tip" to
proceed.
Corruption is an especially horrible problem because it is so self
defeating. In the effort to help yourself or your family, you only
hurt the country even more. Edwin told me a story about an American
company who wanted to start a palm oil plantation on government land
in the Southwest Region. The company would have bought the land from
the government, employed only locals (Cameroon's official unemployment
rate is 30%), and even built over 20 schools and 6 hospitals for the
locals, along with improving the infrastructure to help their
operation. Nonetheless, it wasn't enough for the local council, who
wouldn't allow the 80,000 hectare plantation unless the company
directly payed the council 100 Francs per tree. On an 80,000 hectare
plantation, there must be millions of trees, and the company refused
and left, meaning that the local people were denied opportunities for
employment, healthcare, and jobs.
So how do you stop corruption? Perhaps part of corruption stems from
financial necessity. If you have a very small salary, there is no way
to support your family unless you are corrupt. Often, though, it has
simply become a hardwired part of the culture. That question is
important enough to me, though, that I'm considering modifying my
course of study somewhat. I'm almost certain that I will be a
Geography major, modified by Economics, because I still believe that
money is the most important relation between two countries and within
a country. I'm considering a Government minor, or even a double major with Government and
Geography-Economics if I have room. First, a Government major or minor
would allow me to take advantage of Dartmouth's Government department,
one of the best in the country. It would also give me an additional
lens to examine the relations between different nations. Most
importantly, though, I would learn about the relationship between a
government and its citizens, and if anything, that's the first step to
fighting corruption.
Anyway, our ride down from Oku to Bamenda was one of the craziest
roller coasters I've ever been on. If anything, the mud had gotten
worse overnight, and we had the same bald tires on our bus as before.
As we started downhill, we noticed we weren't so much driving downhill
as sliding. Indeed, the ruts in the road were the only thing keeping
the bus on the road. Had the driver tried to stop or turn, the bus
would have simply kept sliding right over the side and into the
jungle. As soon as we began the downhill, everyone crammed into the
bus jumped out as quickly as possible, fearing for their own safety.
From the back, watching the bus was like watching a skier who could
neither ski nor stop. It was horrifying, as the bus would sometimes
point as much as 45 degrees away from the direction it was sliding in.
However, it was quite amusing to watch people jump out of the way of
the careening van. Welcome to Africa: where you run away from your
transportation. We finally got to the bottom of the hill, after the
breathless descent. There had been a roadside market at the bottom of
the hill; as soon as they saw the out of control vehicle careening
down the mountain, they abandoned their wares and ran for their lives.
While descending into the valley had been an adventure, we now had to
climb back up out of the valley, and the way this was accomplished was
simultaneously ingenious and pitiful. The driver would find a flat
stretch with some traction and reverse to the end. Then he would floor
the gas, gain as much momentum as he could, and shoot up the mountain,
while the passengers ran behind the bus. Eventually, the mud would
stop the bus, and the driver would only be able to spin his wheels. At
that point, we would open up the back and pull out several mud bricks.
We crushed these bricks into a powder, then sprinkled the powder
liberally along the rut so that the bus would have traction. Africa:
where you make the road as you go. Finally, as the driver floored the
gas, smoke pouring out from the tires, everyone would get to the back
of the bus and push with all their might. When the bus got moving, we
would climb up on the bumper and grab onto the roof rack until the bus
stopped again, at which point we would simply hop off and begin
pushing again. We continued this tedious process up the 20% slope for
several miles, and about 1500 vertical feet. After about 4 hours of
pushing, we got to the top and began the relatively easy descent back
to Bamenda. Africa: where you move your transportation.
The really disturbing part was that the bus line travels on this road
every single day, repeating this charade each time. Why haven't they
decided to, you know, outfit the bus so they don't have to do this? Or
petition the Prime Minister, who is from Oku after all, to pave the
road? Or at least use tires with some kind of tread on them? I'm
mystified.
Anyway, that's my Cameroon dispatch for now. I'll send one more email
next week, which will be my last while in the country because for my
last week, we're only traveling around the country with Edwin. We'll
visit the black sand beaches of Limbe, climb West Africa's highest
mountain, Mt. Cameroon, see the famous white sand beaches of Kribi,
and even visit a pygmy village. Needless to say, I won't have much
internet time during that trip, but I'll send a final email when I get
home, summing up my thoughts. Later! -John
The '56 supported Project RightChoice Homepage
The Great Class of 1956 55th Reunion Bulletin #2
(Please save: these are collectors’ items)
CLASS OF 1956 to Have Classmate Book Signing at 55th Reunion
A unique and creative never-before-done book signing is being scheduled for Tuesday afternoon June 14, 2011 at Hopkins Center.
Wanted: Classmates who have written books
Venue: Hopkins Center 3-5pm, June 14, 2011
Event: Each author to talk for 15 minutes on a book they have written & published followed by book signing and sale, proceeds to go
to Project Right Choice, the ’56-supported College Veterans Association Fund.
Books must be in English and easy to comprehend.
Author Enrollment Form
Name:_ ________________________
Book Title: ________________________
Date Published: _________________________
Synopsis 25 words or less:
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Please Submit Enrollment forms to harpoon1@bellsouth.net. Please advise of other Classmate books
where author may be too shy to come forward for this stellar event.
The Great Class of 1956 55th Reunion Bulletin #1
(Please save! These are collectors’ items)
Brought to you by The Poon and The Rose
The Great Class of 1956 55th reunion has begun. Mark it on your calendars now because it will be the most Memorable 55th reunion in Dartmouth College history.
Dates: June 13-16, 2011
This reunion is about us -- what we have done, where we have been, our thoughts on the world, life, or whatever. All of you will be participants. We will be inviting relevant faculty to share their thoughts and to discuss/debate controversial issues. There will be hikes, golf, tennis, swimming, a Class Regatta on the Connecticut River, “gourmet meals” served by Café Thayer, Tanzi Tents, and much, much more.
We have reserved private, air conditioned rooms at the Wheelock cluster of dorms across from the gym. In addition there are 50 rooms tentatively reserved at a new facility being built in a hotel called Six South Street at $249 per night. They are not ready to receive individual reservations but if you indicate your interest in reserving a room when you return this bulletin, we will hold the reservations in the order they are received.
We are also planning a post-reunion gathering at either the Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, Vermont, or the Mt. Washington Hotel.
Aggressive negotiations are underway but a lot is dependent on head count. We need to know the following:
Planning to attend: Yes___ #persons____ Maybe____ Definitely not_____
Would like a room at the South Street Hotel______
Planning to attend post-reunion gathering June 16 &17: Yes___#persons____Maybe____ Definitely not____
Details are underway. You will be hearing from us constantly over the next 12 months. This bulletin is merely
putting you on notice to save the date. No negative answers are accepted as final!
For the record please send us the most up-to-date information on you.
Name ________________Name of wife/significant other_________________
Address_________________________________________________________
Telephone_________________________________
Email_____________________________________
Please print out and return this bulletin to harpoon1@bellsouth.net ASAP. We need to hear from you
ASAP for planning purposes. If you don’t do computers, send this to CAPT Tom Harper, USN (Ret), PO Box 1031, Burlington, NC 27216-1031
Check your name on the Class email list to see if we have your correct address by clicking on '56ers on the Internet.
If it is incorrect, please email corrections to Hon. Ed. at flintr@denby.com.
Click here for the Honor Roll of Class participation in the Alumni Fund
Click here for Dartmouth's VAN (VOX Alumni Network), to check your own record or search for other Classmates
Our Great Class has two ListServs (email lists) on the Dartmouth College computers. One is for official Class and College notices (the Announce list);
the other is for Classmate communications and chat on any subject back and forth (the Chat list). To sign up and to learn how to e-mail all of your Classmates, click here:
56ListServer
CLASS OFFICERS (2006-2011)
1956 CLASS PRESIDENT: Clem MALIN (cbmalin@optonline.net; 203-226-4986)
VICE PRESIDENT: Elliott G. WEINSTEIN (Eweinz@aol.com; 914-591-6186)
SECRETARY: Rt. Rev. R. Stewart WOOD, Jr. (stewwood@aol.com; 802-295-8912)
TREASURER: Bob (the other) FAULKNER (robert.faulkner@ubs.com; 401-245-1934)
ALUMNI FUND HEAD AGENT: Don DAVIDOFF (ddavidof@nycap.rr.com; 518-489-2135)
ALUMNI COUNCILLOR: Elliott G. WEINSTEIN (Eweinz@aol.com; 914-591-6186)
PLANNED GIVING & REGIONAL VP (NE): Jon STRONG (j.jonathanstrong@comcast.net; 508-358-4623)
MIDATLANTIC VICE PRESIDENT & CO-CHAIR 55th REUNION: Tom HARPER (harpoon1@bellsouth.net; 336-227-1153)
CO-CHAIR 55th REUNION: Tom ROSENWALD (tomrosenwald@msn.com; 212 -734-6764)
SECURITY & SPECIAL OPS: Col. Fritz SIMMS (rnsimms5456@aol.com; 570-587-2574)
TRAVEL & CO-REGIONAL VP (NE): Roger SCHUMACHER (rsschu@verizon.net; 609-291-8688)
CO-REGIONAL VP (Mid-Atlantic): Dick WHITNEY (rewuncas@aol.com; 919-370-9435)
CO-REGIONAL VP (SE): John HIGGS (higgscom@comcast.net; 772-231-8700)
CO-REGIONAL VP (SE): Howard SODOKOFF (hosodie@comcast.net; 772-336-4447)
REGIONAL VP (Midwest): Bob SLATER (rslater3@wi.rr.com; 414-332-5654)
CO-REGIONAL VP (West): Les REID (larmer@mindspring.com; 253-756-5460)
WOMEN OF '56 ASSOCIATION: Karen MERRELS (kmerrels@sbcglobal.net; 419-861-7422)
[Women of '56 are invited to all Class functions as voters]
NEWSLETTER EDITOR and CLASS WEBSTER: H. Flint RANNEY (flintr@denby.com; PO Box 597, Nantucket, MA 02554-0597; 508-228-4236; fax: 508-228-6542)
ALUMNI RELATIONS OFFICE: has a FREE telephone number: 888-228-6068
Class of 1956 Highlights:
Upcoming Class events Updated 8/26/10.
Ask Dartmouth Updated 4/9/07.
'56ers on the Internet Updated 8/26/10.
1956 Photo Gallery Updated 4/27/10.
1956 In Memoriam - our departed Classmates Updated 7/24/2010.
Class of 1956 Constitution adopted June 13, 2001.
Wah, Who? Whispers! [Class newsletters, all in .pdf format]:
2004
January
March
May
July September
December
2005
February
April
May (full color!)
June
July
August
September
October
November
December
2006
January
February
March
April
May
June
Special 50th Reunion Issue: Sep, Oct, & Nov 06
2007
January
March
May
July
Sep
Dec
2008
March
April
June
September
November
December
2009
February
March (John Sloan Dickey Special Issue)
April
June
August
October
December
2010
January
February
April
June
July
August
October
Great Class of 1956 Internet Links:
E-mail the Webster
Dartmouth College Fund
Baker Bells
DAEMA
Alumni Relations news
Remember the Barbary Coast Orchestra?
Latest College news in The Daily Dartmouth Online edition
The Dartmouth Review Online edition
Dartmouth's History Department has its own home page
Latest satellite photo of the clouds over Hanover!
What's happening in Dartmouth sports
WDCR's (WDBS to us) 50th Anniversary
Thayer School news
Project RightChoice Homepage , a '56 sponsored program
Tuck School news
Visitors since 1/1/2006: 
