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posted Nov. 4, 2009
The founders of the Frisbee Club: a simple gift becomes a key to international friendship.
photo by the author
The First-Ever Frisbee Club of Limbe
by Joel Hanson
Editor’s note: The author, a sometime resident of Seattle, recently traveled to Limbe, a seaside city in Cameroon, which also happens to be a sister city of Seattle (see www.seattle-limbe.org).
From a tourist’s point of view, there’s absolutely nothing to do in Limbe. However, now that I’m older, I’m less interested in traveling exclusively for the purposes of accomplishing things, whether it be standing enraptured before a beautiful painting in a crowded museum, marveling at the interior of a mosque, or attending a concert of local music re-enacted for no other purpose than to amuse—and confuse—tourists.
I’m no longer interested in the exhausting challenge of racing around a city and crossing famous landmarks off a list. Nor am I interested in documenting my trip with a flood of photographic images of myself posing in front of them. No, I’m searching for something that cannot be found in any guidebook: authentic experiences. We all travel for different purposes but I’ve discovered that improvisational—and serendipitous—movement through an unknown city increases the chances of encountering these kinds of experiences.
The most life-affirming cultural communions usually happen when you don’t have an itinerary. Or if you do, the moments you most often remember often occur in between destinations—that is, on the periphery of your vision. Often, training the eyes to perceive cultural opportunities involves nothing more than following through on the random impulses that flit through your brain while walking through an unfamiliar environment and observing people engaged in their exigencies of their daily lives. All you need to do is take a chance on someone, befriend one of the locals, and indelible moments inevitably follow.
Perhaps guidebooks, in addition to recommending where to stay and how much to pay, should also include strategies for maximizing interaction with the natives of a particular city. My book on Limbe would begin with the following sagacious counsel: if you ever find yourself in Limbe, and want to make friends, bring a Frisbee. As far as social lubricants are concerned, it’s far more effective than a bottle of beer. On second thought, after you’ve established friendships with the aid of the Frisbee, solidify those relationships with a bottle of beer—of course, after the game is over.
If a Frisbee is unavailable, simply stroll into one of the local internet cafes and ask if anyone there is interested in giving you a personal tour in exchange for money or a meal. After all, a paucity of employment opportunities means the typical male in Limbe usually has time on his hands, lacks money, and thus eats once a day as a matter of financial necessity.
Cassava and yams are the staples here. They’re thoroughly cooked and mashed until they become a gelantinous glob a less-trained eye might mistake for mashed potatoes. Fufu, as it’s known in these parts, is usually served with a spicy sauce of puréed green vegetables, a piece of meat, and fried plantains for the price of 600 CFA (about 1 Euro). When I confessed to a friend in Douala that I hadn’t yet developed a taste for cassava, she replied, “It doesn’t have much taste, but it fills the stomach.”
A third option is to go online and introduce yourself to a few Limbe residents via a travel website called couchsurfing.org. That’s how I met Derik. On very short notice, he offered to let me stay in a guesthouse he runs with two older brothers in Limbe’s New Town. If you’re interested in getting close to people quickly, Derik’s social skills are far more useful than any tour guide. In the span of a two-hour stroll along the waterfront and later in a bustling outdoor marketplace, Derik introduced me to his vast network of friends and gave me the opportunity to briefly walk into their lives.
Almost every person I met had a story to tell, a question to ask, some life wisdom to share. If someone had asked me what I did that morning, I would have said that I made my first friends in Limbe. I also helped exhausted fisherman push a heavy wooden boat to shore. I stepped through a vibrant, buzzing morning market on the sandy shore as vendors carrying heavy loads on their heads peddled several varieties of fish caught that morning. I ate lunch at a restaurant I never would have found on my own, tucked away behind one of the tallest buildings in the new town, and sampled the cheapest but most delectable fufu and fried plantains I’ve yet tasted in Cameroon.
In the afternoon, it was my turn to return the favor. I remembered a durable blue Frisbee my high school friend Robyn had given me a week earlier in Douala, fished it out from my suitcase, and showed it to my friends. Once their interest was piqued, Derik and his friends Elvis and Michael guided me to a pitch near a crumbling schoolhouse. The field was muddy from the previous night’s downpour and deceptively slippery whenever sudden movement was required. Nearby, a misshapen tree with a large canopy of leaves sheltered a solitary grave in shadows while its roots slowly break apart the stonework surrounding it.
The school, and the field we were standing on, was once a graveyard but none of my friends could tell me who was buried there or when they were removed. We fanned out into an isosceles triangle and flung the Frisbee back and forth. With gentle, encouraging advice, I showed both men how to throw and catch properly, which they mastered in about 15 minutes. People began to wander outside of their makeshift, tin-roofed homes to watch. Word spread quickly that a white man was in their midst and had momentarily commandeered their football field to introduce a new and unfamiliar game.
Whenever the curious onlookers reached the edge of our triangle, I pulled them into it by flinging the Frisbee in their direction. Once they caught it—or dropped it—they became part of the group, the previous students now acting as instructors for the newcomers. Within half an hour, our triangle had expanded to a gigantic, misshapen oval of ten people.
The group was a mélange of children and young adults, neighbors who had never before found themselves playing—or interacting—in the same place. Social awkwardness and the unwritten rules that typically isolate people of widely divergent ages were immediately suspended—or forgotten—in the simple act of trying to master the game and thus, display to the other players that one’s skills were good enough to participate.
My theory was confirmed when Derik, Elvis, and a few others immediately invented a game we later christened “Good Catch/Bad Catch.” The game begins when one player throws the Frisbee to another player. If the recipient drops it, s/he is eliminated from the game. If the first player makes a bad—that is, an uncatchable—throw s/he is eliminated instead of the recipient, provided that a majority of the remaining players concur that it was a poor throw.
The players become engrossed in the challenge—in the spirit—of the game and each throw is suddenly charged with tense enthusiasm. After each catch, the players and onlookers often release a collective sigh; when someone drops the Frisbee, everyone laughs, or groans, to relieve the tension. Respectful disagreements ensue over whether or not a drop was caused by a poor throw, but the players adhere to the rules and respect the democratic judgment of the group.
When four players remain, I introduce the rule that all players must take one step backward after a successful catch, increasing the distance between them and subsequently making it more challenging to make an accurate throw. We continue in silent concentration—in silent communion—for another hour (and four more rounds of the game) until the fiery pink colors of the sunset fade behind the verdant mountains and it becomes difficult to see. Then, we abandon the game for the evening and search for dinner.
We return to the center of town on unpaved streets, our bodies glistening with sweat, each of us still buzzing with a communal gratification, realizing that we’ve shared a lot more than a game. We make plans to play tomorrow and before we realize what’s happened, the first-ever Frisbee Club of Limbe has been born, an athletic ritual we’ll perform once a day for my remaining three days in Limbe.
On our last day together, I ask the group’s founders to pose for a picture. In the photo, their hands are all proudly touching the Frisbee—their new friend that brought them closer together. Their faces are filled with joy, satisfaction, pride—like athletes fresh from a victory lining up for a team picture.
Elvis assures me the group will now meet twice a week in my absence. I promise to return some day with more Frisbees and different games to share. Will the novelty of the club eventually wear off? Maybe. But it’s less likely to happen if the veterans keep introducing the game to others—and the delight of teaching and learning is passed on. I watch Derik on the street in front of his hotel in almost complete darkness, instructing a handful of children how to throw and I begin to believe the club has a good chance of survival.
Over dinner, I tell Elvis of my dream of setting up English language schools in remote, undersupplied areas like Limbe where the demand is great. The task will involve finding someone in the States or elsewhere to donate and ship used texts and school supplies across the globe as well as training teachers in student-centered pedagogies before turning it over to the local community to run on a non-profit basis.
It’s only later that I realize that helping to establish the first-ever Frisbee Club of Limbe was a much simpler trial run. Never mind what I said earlier: there’s a lot to do—and experience—in Limbe, and even more to accomplish. If you know anyone with textbooks, or school supplies, to donate, please contact me.
Joel Hanson’s email is petitfrere30@hotmail.com. He has spent most of his recent years teaching English around the globe. He currently resides in Morocco.
Well, also takes a friendly introduction to one.
Thanks for uplifting article.