The Cameroon Embassy in Washington DC
Those of us born in Cameroon of "Anglo" heritage have never really belonged in the French dominated system. Our education is different, our way of thinking is different, the way we carry oursleves is different. There is a certain complacency in the francophone demeanor that just disgusts some anglophones or maybe I should say disgusts me, as much as our way of dressing is mocked by francophones. I grew up in Yaounde and thought I could blend in. It was easy when you spoke french and had friends who came from everywhere. We grew up not knwing who came from where and we were not conscious of who our parents were. My best friend, the one who cried with me when we were bullied turned out to be a Bamileke. I say turned out because I knew nothing about tribes even as a university student. It never really mattered. When I met my friends, girls or boys, it never really was a question of where they were from. I knew everyone on first name basis and that was it.
The current year is 2011. The date is October 8 and tomorrow we will be voting a new president into the Etoudi palace. The whole world knows who the winner is going to be and I think the winner knows it too because the winner has done the most anyone can do to win a game at home. I will not spend my time to tell you about something that will drive the most sane person on earth bonkers. I want to tell you how I feel not having a shot at anything. I want to tell you how it feels denied basic rights by the interest of multinationals and foreign governments whose interest in your country far surpass yours.
I have been to the Cameroonian embassy many times having lived in the Washington metro area for a number of years now and every time I go there, I never feel at home. I am anglophone. I have always put up my best behavior in order not to attract the wrath of the very “important” officials who serve there. If you grew up in Yaounde, you can very clearly remember “serious” criminal charges like “outrance a chef d’etat” and other high sounding judicial jargon that scared the hell out of us Cameroonians, especially anglophones. Those who blurted out this mumbo jumbo always had the protection of someone high up the civil service hierarchy ready to get mad.
In all fairness, my first experience at the embassy was a positive one. I went to the building on Massachusetts avenue once to renew my passport. I checked online for the requirement that were necessary for that to be done. The ubiquitous fiscal stamps, forms to be signed, proof that you were working, etc. When I went there with all I thought I needed, my application was incomplete. It didn’t bother me. If you have grown up in Yaounde or Cameroon, you must be used to having incomplete applications by now. I returned the next day with a complete application and trying to beat the traffic, I arrived just a little bit earlier than the dropping off time which was either 11 am or 12 pm, I can’t remember. It was January and the embassy was really cold. The year was 2006. I waited in the waiting room and braved the cold for the 20 minutes and the lady-receptionist promptly accepted my file and said my passport will be ready by a certain date. I thanked her and one week later, at 3 pm, just a few minutes after that, I stopped by to pick it up. It was ready and I was so surprised and elated. I scuttled out of the office for fear of being called back for any reason whatsoever.
Now, I must tell you about one incident I witnessed at the embassy while I was waiting to drop off my passport. A gentleman, English-speaking was complaining about some processing delay and was really furious. He got into an argument with the receptionist whose boss later came in at her rescue. The only thing I can remember is the clear message this man said to the “trouble maker”. After asking for and obtaining his documents from the receptionist, he turned to the man and said in French “Sachez, Monsieur que vous ne serez jamais servi”. I don’t know what happened to the man who needed service but five years later, I found myself in the office of the same man. He was very courteous and polite and understood my problem and proceeded to solve it. He made photocopies of my document and called someone to help me. He even went the length of apologising for the behavior of another colleague. “L’homme est capable du meilleur comme du pire,” I thought.
Since the Cameroon Embassy moved to Georgetown, it has been a nightmare for me. First of all I have had to take friends there who have come from out-of-state for various reasons. I have had to drop off passports for renewal and other applications. To begin with, it takes at least 40 mins to drive there and this is a distance of about 18 miles and that is when you are very lucky. It hurts especially when you have to pass through the “old” embassy and you are thinking “I could be there by now”, only to drive for another 20 mins. That is just an inconvenience that lazy commuters like myself will always complain about because we always miff about something. If you put the Embassy 5 mile from Greenbelt I will probably complain that it is too far for a walk.
The second issue you have to deal with, having arrived at the embassy is the waiting, outside. Even though the address shows Wisconsin avenue, NW, the actual entrance into the embassy is through a gate on R Street, NW. Through the gate you enter a fenced backyard where the embassy staff park their cars and go the entrance if you are an ordinary citizen like me. You press the intercom buzzer and a voice (always cold and unfriendly to me) answers “yes...”, then you state your purpose and you are either asked to wait or given directives on what to do. It always seems as if you are interrupting someone who is very busy with very important business that only you fail to see/notice. If you came to drop off documents, you will be asked to wait. At some point, a tall gentleman who may never lack a job as a bouncer opens the door and the hope of those standing outside (it’s really hot in the summer) to either distribute or call numbers or both. When you get in, the man who just let you in verifies your documents or asks you questions in order to better direct you. He may give you a clip board with applications to fill out and will politely tell to “have a seat” on either of the two waiting room chairs that have been there for as long as I can remember.
The current year is 2011. The date is October 8 and tomorrow we will be voting a new president into the Etoudi palace. The whole world knows who the winner is going to be and I think the winner knows it too because the winner has done the most anyone can do to win a game at home. I will not spend my time to tell you about something that will drive the most sane person on earth bonkers. I want to tell you how I feel not having a shot at anything. I want to tell you how it feels denied basic rights by the interest of multinationals and foreign governments whose interest in your country far surpass yours.
I have been to the Cameroonian embassy many times having lived in the Washington metro area for a number of years now and every time I go there, I never feel at home. I am anglophone. I have always put up my best behavior in order not to attract the wrath of the very “important” officials who serve there. If you grew up in Yaounde, you can very clearly remember “serious” criminal charges like “outrance a chef d’etat” and other high sounding judicial jargon that scared the hell out of us Cameroonians, especially anglophones. Those who blurted out this mumbo jumbo always had the protection of someone high up the civil service hierarchy ready to get mad.
In all fairness, my first experience at the embassy was a positive one. I went to the building on Massachusetts avenue once to renew my passport. I checked online for the requirement that were necessary for that to be done. The ubiquitous fiscal stamps, forms to be signed, proof that you were working, etc. When I went there with all I thought I needed, my application was incomplete. It didn’t bother me. If you have grown up in Yaounde or Cameroon, you must be used to having incomplete applications by now. I returned the next day with a complete application and trying to beat the traffic, I arrived just a little bit earlier than the dropping off time which was either 11 am or 12 pm, I can’t remember. It was January and the embassy was really cold. The year was 2006. I waited in the waiting room and braved the cold for the 20 minutes and the lady-receptionist promptly accepted my file and said my passport will be ready by a certain date. I thanked her and one week later, at 3 pm, just a few minutes after that, I stopped by to pick it up. It was ready and I was so surprised and elated. I scuttled out of the office for fear of being called back for any reason whatsoever.
Now, I must tell you about one incident I witnessed at the embassy while I was waiting to drop off my passport. A gentleman, English-speaking was complaining about some processing delay and was really furious. He got into an argument with the receptionist whose boss later came in at her rescue. The only thing I can remember is the clear message this man said to the “trouble maker”. After asking for and obtaining his documents from the receptionist, he turned to the man and said in French “Sachez, Monsieur que vous ne serez jamais servi”. I don’t know what happened to the man who needed service but five years later, I found myself in the office of the same man. He was very courteous and polite and understood my problem and proceeded to solve it. He made photocopies of my document and called someone to help me. He even went the length of apologising for the behavior of another colleague. “L’homme est capable du meilleur comme du pire,” I thought.
Since the Cameroon Embassy moved to Georgetown, it has been a nightmare for me. First of all I have had to take friends there who have come from out-of-state for various reasons. I have had to drop off passports for renewal and other applications. To begin with, it takes at least 40 mins to drive there and this is a distance of about 18 miles and that is when you are very lucky. It hurts especially when you have to pass through the “old” embassy and you are thinking “I could be there by now”, only to drive for another 20 mins. That is just an inconvenience that lazy commuters like myself will always complain about because we always miff about something. If you put the Embassy 5 mile from Greenbelt I will probably complain that it is too far for a walk.
The second issue you have to deal with, having arrived at the embassy is the waiting, outside. Even though the address shows Wisconsin avenue, NW, the actual entrance into the embassy is through a gate on R Street, NW. Through the gate you enter a fenced backyard where the embassy staff park their cars and go the entrance if you are an ordinary citizen like me. You press the intercom buzzer and a voice (always cold and unfriendly to me) answers “yes...”, then you state your purpose and you are either asked to wait or given directives on what to do. It always seems as if you are interrupting someone who is very busy with very important business that only you fail to see/notice. If you came to drop off documents, you will be asked to wait. At some point, a tall gentleman who may never lack a job as a bouncer opens the door and the hope of those standing outside (it’s really hot in the summer) to either distribute or call numbers or both. When you get in, the man who just let you in verifies your documents or asks you questions in order to better direct you. He may give you a clip board with applications to fill out and will politely tell to “have a seat” on either of the two waiting room chairs that have been there for as long as I can remember.
One by one, you are directed to your various destinations. For most people, it is to the left of the reception area from the rear entrance. You pass the front entrance door (not used) to a glass window on your right. A lady receives your documents and may inform you if they are incomplete or not. She does not “see” everything and so don’t be surprised if at some point a miscue is pointed out to you, if you need extra stamps, photos, authorisation...
This process may appear smooth for many, but for some people there is always something to complain about. I have NEVER been to the embassy without hearing someone complain about a processing delay. This usually happens at pick up hours.
Pick up at the Embassy is between 3 and 4PM. I know that very well by now! Let me make it clear that this is not for everyone. I have seen people get in and come out with documents while we wait in line outside. The same process for drop off is observed at pick up. You wait, are given a ticket, are called inside. Inside, you wait and are called and when you go the drop off/pick up window, you have the feeling of someone who wrote a quiz they aren’t sure to pass and is awaiting a miracle. For many people, the process is flawless. I have seen people completely stunned at being served so well that they feel embarrassed, overly grateful and sheepish. They smile to everyone they see, they thank anyone who they suspect may have helped: “merci beaucoup” or “thank you very much”. I have observed some stumble on someone or something. They just passed a quiz they thought they were going to fail! For others, the few who are the victims to that exception that confirms the rule, there will always be something that they failed to do, something they overlooked, the little misstep and fault in the CQFD*. There is always redemption however: come back tomorrow. Oui, revenez demain. See you.
The embassy, like Cameroon, is like an elephant with groping blind men as its citizens. It could be a wall, for protection, a wall to stop progress. For me, an anglophone from the Southwest Region, the embassy will always be a foreign place. A place where I cannot take pictures, but others can. A place where I have to wait in line to be told to come back tomorrow, a place where I have to watch myself in order not to disturb the conversation that is going on among the Beti people, a place where some friends walk in and out and offer to “help” me when they don’t work there, a place where on this Friday morning in October 2011, Embassy staff and CPDM people are outside chanting the praises of the President Paul Biya, a place where when I ask if the noise they make outside is normal, Mr. Nyamboli tells me it is because they have the authorisation and I make more noise than they make, a place where CPDM militants can sit outside and drink whiskey and tell me there is no law that prohibits them from doing so, a place where I always seem to annoy the receptionist who has once threatened to throw me out because the cultural attache was impolite to me, a place where a Beti man who confessed he had no papers could get a consular card and hence a voter’s registration card, but I had to have the consul intervene for mine to be processed, a place where you have to know somebody to be somebody, a place where if I paste this note on the embassy wall will make everyone in there chuckle: “weeh, vraiment, ces anglophones! Ils se plaignent trop pour rien.” A place where I have a "fichier" and will always be referred to as "un opposant farouche!" Whatever that means!
I wonder how long it will be before we the “eternal complainers” will take it no more.
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