Yaoundé, Sunday, October 11, 2009

Greetings, one and all!

Yes, it has been a long time! After my last posting, life was quite busy, work-wise, but also rather humdrum, so there didn’t seem to be any reason to post any news on the blog. I’m sure that a weekly litany of what I’d eaten or done work-wise would have been terribly dull! And the last posting was very long, so I thought that a break would certainly be welcome. Those are my excuses, anyway!

The last few months have been relatively calm (in the Macfarlane sense of the word, to be sure), life being fairly routine. I did manage a couple of trips within Cameroon, of which more anon, and was very happy to have four weeks’ holiday, from late July until August 20th. I shall spare you the details of the summer vacation as I’m sure that Marion will regale you with it all in the annual letter that may or may not be issued before January 2010. In summary, though, you need to know that Marion and I spent two weeks in Britain, followed by two weeks in Canada before my return to Yaoundé.

Here in Cameroon, I benefit from the local statutory holidays. I could have chosen to take the Canadian ones, but it seemed a bit strange to have days’ off while colleagues worked and vice-versa, and since the number of statutory holidays is the same, it was easier to take the Cameroonian ones. All this to explain that May 1 is International Workers’ Day (Labour Day, celebrated the world over except in North America) and that, this year, the holiday fell on a Friday, thus affording me a long weekend. Of course, there were numerous celebrations, parades etc. in which I could have participated, as well as a big meal at the Centre, but I had informed my colleagues that I wouldn’t be attending these, explaining that a day off for workers meant a day off for me (quite the revolutionary talk!). I decided that a long weekend was perfect for a quick trip somewhere, and chose to go to Dschang (pronounced Tchang), a University town nestled in the hills about 400 km away.

Not wishing to travel alone, I invited one of my colleagues, Serge, a metalwork teacher, aged 23, whom I mentor a lot with respect to pedagogy, to come along. Serge had once told me that he had a cousin studying in Dschang and had also mentioned in passing that he hadn’t travelled much in Cameroon. I was quite relieved that Serge accepted the invitation, since I thought he might feel obliged to participate in all festivities. Much as I enjoy travelling, it’s not a bad idea to be accompanied, just in case, especially by a person whose biceps are very impressive! I spent the best part of a week trying to reach the hotel that had been recommended and I managed, at last, to reserve a room two days before leaving. Le Centre climatique de Dschang (Dschang Spa) was established during the Second World War to cater to expatriates (colonial administrators and others) who couldn’t go home on leave (for obvious reasons) and was the only place that was recommended to me.

Serge and I had agreed to meet at the bus station at 6:30 on the Friday morning, May 1, to catch the first bus to Dschang, theoretically leaving at 7. Njikam, my taxi driver, bless his heart, got up extra early to take me to the station and decided to hang around until Serge arrived. At 6:40, I called Serge (usually punctual), to find that he was still trying to catch a taxi at his end of town. This being May Day, of course, there weren’t many around, since customers were few and far between. So Njikam hared off to get Serge, brought him to the station at about 7:15 and left for home. Serge and I bought our tickets, and as we were the first (!!!) passengers (out of 70), were able to book the seats right in front of the bus. The stationmaster assured us that we’d be leaving by 9 at the latest. Hem… The bus took a long time to fill up (remember that busses don’t leave until full, no matter what!), and it was 11:30 before it was full. Just as well I had a magazine to read as well as a couple of books. I knew that we’d have to wait, but not that long! Anyway, at 11:30, the doors of the bus closed, and we moved off – after a few tricky manoeuvres, the bus then parked on the street, right in front of the station, and the driver switched off the engine and got out. Then a wee man came around checking for tickets, and a number of passengers got off and went back to the ticket office. These were the passengers to whom change was owed, so we waited… and waited… and waited… Finally, at 12:45, we left! One does need patience….

The trip was long and not very comfortable, I have to say. We did have a good view, and it was a good day for travelling, no rain but cloud cover. The main road is in fairly good shape, and other than a couple of rest stops on the way (“Quite the bull, that guy, he never stops!”), a market stop and a couple of checkpoints, the trip was relatively uneventful. At one of the checkpoints, though, we were stuck for about 45 minutes. The reason, we found out, was that the bus was “overloaded” (code for a tip) and that the driver didn’t have a driver’s licence. Whether this meant that he didn’t have one at all, or just that he’d forgotten it at home (!), we were never told. He was quite the surly driver to begin with, and his mood didn’t improve after this, since he no doubt had to hand over quite a large tip. Driving roughshod over bumps etc., we stopped at a place called Bafoussam, where we dropped off some passengers and took on a few more (an hour) and then went on to Dschang, only about 50 km from Bafoussam. By the time we left Bafoussam, it was 6:30 p.m. and as the road leading out of that town is in an awful state, it took about 30 minutes to cover about three kilometres (traffic, potholes, pedestrians, etc.). Once out of town, the road was in excellent shape, but, of course, we had to stop along the way to let passengers off at the various palm trees that they indicated. We finally made it to Dschang at about 8 p.m.

Once off the bus, Serge and I looked for a taxi – no such thing around! There was only one mototaximan, who kindly told us that there were no taxis at all in Dschang, so where would we like to go? (Indeed, no taxis were seen during our stay.) And as far as we could see, there was just the one mototaximan (he certainly wasn’t going to call a friend!)… so, Serge and I climbed aboard the motorbike – I am being kind, as it was a moped, really - and the driver balanced my small suitcase on the handlebar, Serge carried his bag on his lap (the bag wasn’t very big) and sat just behind the driver while I sat on the luggage rack (hoping that the trip to the Centre wouldn’t be very long), carrying my little bag and, of course, my umbrella, which accompanies me everywhere to ensure that it doesn’t rain (superstitious, I know, but it works!).

It was quite a chilly ride, but it didn’t take too long to get to the Centre climatique, which was all in darkness, except for one brave little light in the reception area! And no one in the reception area. We finally raised someone, only to discover that the room that I’d booked had been rented out to someone else (“You should have confirmed today, sir) but I was finally shown to a room in one of the bungalows. The mototaximan hung around while Serge tried to raise his cousin on the phone, with no response – in the sense that the phone didn’t ring at all at the other end. He was a bit put out, to put it mildly, since he’d told the cousin that he was arriving that day. There was not much choice, so Serge ended up spending the night on the couch in the living room. Before that, we needed to eat, but as there were no restaurants open, and the hotel was shutting down for the evening (power off at 9 p.m.), we clambered back onto the moped, found a little store where we bought some very old cookies (but no maggots, you’ll be glad to know) and some water and returned to the hotel.

Yes, living room. The rooms at the Centre climatique are all housed within bungalows. Really rather nice; each bungalow has a living room and two bedrooms, with a shared toilet (but with separate showers). The living room is appointed rather basically, but has a nice fireplace (but no wood to burn), and the bedroom was ok, although I found the bed slightly lumpy. Since I’d only booked one room, we didn’t have access to the second bedroom, but did have the use of the living room. I was quite exhausted by the day’s trip, and by 9:30, I was in bed, and Serge was snoring on the couch (it didn’t look very comfortable, I must admit!). And yes, it was cold… in fact (gasp! As our son Jonathon would say), I used the blanket both nights I was there, the only time in Cameroun that I have used a blanket (except when I had my bout of malaria in April 2008). No mosquitoes, no doubt due to the deep cold (!) which is just as well since there were no mosquito nettings anywhere!

The next day dawned bright and clear, with a bit of nip in the air – it was probably 14 degrees… Serge managed to call his cousin, who explained that he’d turned off his phone in order to charge it the night before, figuring that as he hadn’t heard from Serge, the latter wasn’t coming until Saturday. Anyway… Serge invited the cousin to join us for breakfast and the said cousin, Max, showed up about an hour later with his girl-friend. What can one do… at least Max hadn’t brought the whole dormitory with him! So we breakfasted in a leisurely fashion and were done at about 11 a.m. I decided that I ought to visit the town a bit (such a great tourist I am), so we called up the mototaximan from the night before, and he showed up quite promptly. Serge went off with his cousin and the girl-friend to do his thing.

I tootled off on the motorbike, a bit nervously, I must admit, as I don’t like the machines at all and have witnessed too many accidents involving them. No helmets, of course! By this time, the sun was quite warm (although many people were wearing sweaters), and I told the driver that I just wanted to go around town to get a sense of things. So we did just that. He drove carefully, for which I was truly grateful, pointing out the various landmarks. “Here is the Texaco station. And this is the Town Hall, and here is the Hotel Miramar, and this is Texaco 2. It’s called Texaco 2 because it’s the second Texaco station.” Most amusing! He took me up to the hospital, which was quite the complex, run by the Sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul (I refused to visit the inside), and we took a run up to the University, having negotiated our way in through the barrier (the watchman is my friend [500 FCFA, about $1.25]).

Quite the stunning little place, Dschang, nestled in a valley and really rather pleasant. The driver offered to take me to a place called Cliff of something or other, but said that it would take about 30 minutes to get there, so I refused, saying that I’d do so on my next trip. Finally, I was back at the hotel at about 1 p.m. And no, there is nothing to do in Dschang… The cousin had pointed out that it was a University town, so no one had much money, so there isn’t even “normal night life”. A very serious place, he said, one comes here to study and at 7:30 p.m., everything shuts down.

Given that it was snooze time, that’s what I did, to be awakened by Serge, at about 3 p.m., wondering if he could use the pool at the hotel. I was quite surprised to see him, but he explained that his cousin had some studying to do, so he, Serge, was at a loose end. As I’d planned to use the pool myself, off we went. Loud music greeted us, and there was a host of young things enjoying the only pool in town. Quite a large pool, I must say, and I had a good swim and then spent time people watching from the shade (the scalp had had a good innings during the tour of the town, and no, I hadn’t brought my hat…). I must say it was quite fun to watch everyone jiggling away to the music, whether in the water on or on the side of the pool. An awful lot of male show-offs; one chappie climbed up to the diving platform and gave quite the dancing performance before finally diving into the pool. Quite proud of his body, he was, and a good dancer. I don’t know how he did it, but I swear that his very muscular breasts moved each to a different rhythm! There was one young lady, clad in a swim suit with a skirt, who had some pretty nifty movements involving swinging around poles and shimmying into the water. This took care of the rest of the afternoon and was much more entertaining than television, to my mind, anyway!

At about 6, I asked Serge what his plans were for the evening; he suggested that we invite his cousin and girl-friend for supper (very nice couple, I must confess), and I really couldn’t refuse – well, I suppose I could have, but anyway, I didn’t. I sort of felt sorry for Serge, stuck with an older person for company all afternoon, when he probably thought that he’d be having a whale of a time with cousin and friends thereof. Of course, no one refuses an invitation to a meal, so the couple showed up at about seven, and we had a pleasant meal sitting on the veranda of the restaurant. Quite good food. It came out during the course of the meal that there was no room for Serge to stay at his cousin’s (the couple rent a small room), so the poor boy (man, I suppose, he is 23) spent the night on the couch again.

The next morning, after breakfast (meaning 10 a.m., no sense in arriving too soon at the bus station!), we started back. At the bus station, the bus was more than half full, which was encouraging, as it meant that we started at 11:30. Same kind of palaver (i.e., starting off, stopping, checking tickets, returning change) and we finally left at 12:30. Patience, patience. No sooner were we clear of Dschang, than a smartly dressed young man got up in his seat, and started off on a sermon in English, with a colleague providing instant interpretation in French. There was a sort of stunned silence at first, but when it became apparent that the haranguing was going to continue all the way to Bafoussam, people started shouting out for him to stop, and finally the conductor managed to shush him up. The whole thing created a mini dispute, as some passengers thought that there was nothing wrong listening to the word of God, no matter who was orating, but most saying that they hadn’t paid to be a captive congregation and that if they’d wanted to be in church, that’s where they’d be!

The bus was totally full, and Serge and I had managed to get two seats together in the very last row, not very comfortable as we were sitting just over the wheels, our heads leaping for the ceiling every time we went over a bump. We made good time to Bafoussam, as no one was getting off on the way there, had a very brief stop in that town, and then hared off at Formula 1 speed toward Yaoundé, which we reached at about 5 p.m. Not without more excitement, since the bus stopped, every so often, to allow people to purchase items at various markets (mangoes, pineapple, rat meat, etc.). To my left, a “traditionally-built” African lady on the other side who bought stuff at every stop, which meant that I was soon surrounded by mangoes, pineapple, some kind of spinach and a couple of bags of rat meat in a basket placed on my knees. Thank goodness the trip was fairly quick!

Njikam had called me in the morning, when we were still in Dschang, to announce the birth of his daughter, and had said that he would meet us at the station, as long as we gave him about 30 minutes’ warning, which I did. We had to wait for him for a little while, since he’d been quite surprised that the bus was so early, and, I guess, had to go and get his taxi out of the compound where he keeps it. Anyway, he was very cheerful, of course! We dropped Serge off and I was home by shortly after 6.

Exhausting weekend, but fun, I guess! This is a good time to take a break, my friends, before I embark on the recital of the next trip, which took place just six weeks ago.

***

One of my colleagues, Jean-Vincent, the math and physics teacher at the Centre, had suggested, back in June, that I visit his village and admire the family farm. Unfortunately, it had not been possible to make that trip before I left on vacation at the end of July, so we arranged that we should do so on the second weekend after my return. For this trip, I booked Simplice (the other taxi driver), since I was sure it would give him a thrill to go “au village”, and, to be honest, I didn’t particularly wish to travel by bus and bush-taxi. It was decided that we should leave at 1 p.m. on Friday afternoon and that we would return on the Sunday afternoon.

Jean-Vincent duly showed up at the house at the appointed time and deposited his baggage. He asked to be picked up at the top of the hill so that indiscrete eyes at the Centre wouldn’t notice us going off together (one has to pass in front of the Centre to leave town, and one has to be careful of jealous eyes). So I waited for half an hour, to give time for JV to reach the appointed spot, and Simplice and I then went off. With Jean-Vincent, to my surprise, were two cousins: Stéphanie, invited so that she could help “la maman” with entertaining us (me, I guess) and Jean-Pierre (I think – they called him J.-P. all the time), whose family lives in the village next to Jean-Vincent’s. Luggage galore, things on laps, etc., and of course, as the main guest (and white!), I was expected to show up bearing gifts of food (two 10 kg sacks of rice, a huge box of mackerel, masses of wine [cardboard box type]). It was a pleasant drive, as it wasn’t raining, and Simplice’s car didn’t fall to bits – it’s a bit of a wreck, to put it mildly, but it goes. The road was paved most of the way, except for the penultimate 50 km which were crushed gravel and passable and the last 3 km a wide dirt path in the best tradition of wide paths. I don’t know how Simplice got the loaded car through the last bit, but he managed it!

We didn’t arrive until about 7 p.m., so it was dark, and we men sat around outside as the ladies hurriedly prepared a meal. No electricity, only lanterns, so it was hard to make out faces as people from the surrounding houses trotted up to be introduced. Chicken for supper (including gizzards, heart, other entrails and the claws) that night accompanied by fried plantains. I was offered palm wine, which I refused, but did take a bit of the distilled liquor made from it, figuring that it was pretty safe. I’d brought a whole lot of bottled water, of course. There being no running water (if you discount the river about 300 metres away), palm wine is the drink of choice morning, noon and night, as I discovered. Finally, at about 11 o’clock, I was shown to my room – what a surprise! I had expected to share a room with all the men, but no, I was given Jean-Vincent’s mother’s room, that she shares with her husband, Édouard, (who is not Jean-Vincent’s father). So I ended up in a double bed, properly made up and with a mosquito net. It was a tad uncomfortable, as I had to sleep diagonally in order to settle over the slats poking through the very thin foam mattress. Nevertheless, I slept well, not even waking up in the night to use the chamber pot that had been thoughtfully provided for me.

Saturday dawned quite bright, and we were all up by 6:30 a.m. Édouard, Jean-Vincent’s step-father, greeted me with a broad smile and announced that we’d be visiting the farm at some point after breakfast. Very nice chappie, I must say, full of agricultural ideas and good management skills (this all came out over the course of the day, of course). He used to work at the Cameroon Breweries until a few years ago when, during an economic downturn, he lost his job and decided to come back to the village and become self-sufficient. He has no children of his own (rare in a man his age, he must be close to my age) and he and Jean-Vincent’s mother, Agnes, haven’t had children together either.

While waiting for breakfast, a couple of huge hares were brought in, held by the ears. They were huge and had been trapped during the night. It was announced that we’d be eating some of that meat at some point during the day. There was also a constant stream of visitors, shaking hands and then making their way to the kitchen to get their share of the stuff that I’d brought. Some went away with a couple of mackerel, others with a litre of wine. I guess it’s expected to share the manna from heaven. I sort of felt sorry for my hosts, but I suppose they have no choice in the matter, tradition dictating that one shares the bounty received!

Breakfast was more fried plantain served with beef sauce, with very (un)chewable lumps of meat, and we duly set off, at about 9 a.m., to visit the farm, I in my new Wellington boots (green, yes), bought for the occasion, as Jean-Vincent had told me that there would be a lot of mud – he was right! Anyway, we trotted round various fields being shown where they collect palm wine – basically, it’s palm tree sap, and you have to cut the tree down, lop off the top, and then slice the trunk at a certain spot, and put a bucket under the trunk to catch the drips. It seems that you can get two or three litres a day, as long as you carry on sawing off a bit of the trunk every day. Only a certain section of the trunk produces the liquid. A bit like tapping for maple syrup, but it seems a shame to have to cut down the tree, although it would no doubt be difficult to tap a tree 30 feet up in the air. The palm wine is drunk as is – i.e., no treatment at all, and, of course, I didn’t have any of it at all. Watching Jean-Vincent and the others picking out flies, ants and various other insects from the bucket wasn’t too inspiring, to but it mildly! Fortunately, Jean-Vincent was able to confirm that I didn’t drink much alcohol, so the moment passed without any cultural incident. And yes, the sap comes out mildly alcoholic, and Édouard, J.-P. and Jean-Vincent, quaffed quite a lot of the stuff as we made our rounds; there were wine-producing palm trees placed in many strategic places.

Having admired the palm trees, the millet, the tobacco plant, the coffee bushes (Édouard no longer runs a coffee farm as the prices have dropped too much) and various other things growing, we went back to the house for a short break before heading off to the next field. I have to say that I’m in full admiration of Édouard’s work habits, since he looks after all this mostly on his own; he does hire ladies from time to time to help out (working in the fields is considered women’s work), but basically it’s all his own, back-breaking work, a rare thing for a man to do.

By-passing the latrines (his and hers), we started trekking through dense forest – it really felt like the jungle (I suppose it is, really!), with Édouard and Jean-Vincent in the front hacking away at various impediments on the way, and J.-P behind me, in case I slipped on something. We clambered down a very muddy embankment, and then trudged carefully along a river bed (thank goodness for the boots!), squelched through mud and finally arrived at field number 2. My companions went barefoot or simply wet and muddied their footwear. I caught a couple of glances at my boots, no doubt expressing hope that I’d leave them behind on my departure (but no, this didn’t happen!).

The field we finally got to is the maize, peanut and sugar cane field, so I duly admired all the shoots etc., and we had a little sit-down to talk about all this agricultural stuff (yes, they’re hoping that I’ll invest in the undertaking, and no, I wasn’t surprised!) and then we finally made our way back to the house for a late lunch. We had hare – very nice, too, along with (you guessed it!) fried plantains. I was starting to wonder if the rice I’d brought was any use…

After lunch, it was suggested that we skip Field number 3 (phew! banana and plantain grove) as we had to go to J.-P.’s village, about 4 km away, so we piled into Simplice’s car and slowly drove over the ruts to get there. Although there is no telephone coverage in the area (and no power and no running water), we were expected because the bush telegraph had announced our arrival the previous evening, and the invitation had been issued the same way. Piles of people to meet and greet, and we spent a couple of hours there before heading back to Édouard and Agnes’ abode, leaving J.-P. behind with his family for the rest of the afternoon. Stéphanie had stayed behind to wash dishes and start preparing supper – poor woman, I don’t think she left the kitchen all weekend – and now an evening meal was being prepared as the men from the other family (brothers of Agnes) were coming over to say hello even though we had just spent time with them.

The gentlemen duly showed up, and we sat under the spreading palm tree, they quaffing palm wine (sometimes not bothering to remove the insects) or some of the red wine that I had brought. My, these people drink in huge quantities! Supper was duly served at about 8 p.m., consisting this time of varan, a sort of iguana (the dictionary states that it’s a varanus lizard), I think, and – yes, fried plantains, mashed plantains and boiled plantains. The varan was very tasty, much nicer than crocodile. Finally, people left, and I went to bed, quite exhausted by all this socializing!

The next morning, I slept in until 7 a.m.! We had planned to leave at 8:30. However, certain things had to be placed in the car before departure: three huge bunches of plantain, a huge bunch of bananas, a large bag of peanuts, a fairly large bag of corn, loads of sugar cane, and the remains of the hare, some of all this for me, most for J.-P., Stéphanie and Jean-Vincent. Of course, prior to this, the plantains had to be cut down, the bananas too, so Édouard and Jean-Vincent were trotting around various fields harvesting all the loot. At one point, Édouard, who had gone around to collect sugar cane, came back with a broad grin, holding a varan by the tail. The poor animal had been caught in one of the traps set all over the fields to discourage predators, so having slit its neck, and drained it of blood, it too went into the car for the trip home. At 11 a.m., almost on time by Cameroonian standards, we left Édouard and Agnes’ place and went to pick up J.-P. at his family’s place, where we had to sit around for a bit. They were preparing a meal for us, but Jean-Vincent managed to persuade them to give it to us in the form of a picnic, so we were able to leave at about 12:30. Lunch, eaten later, was a stew of guinea-pigs, very tasty.

By the time we left, it was pouring with rain, a deluge, but fortunately, we didn’t have to negotiate the mud track as it was all packed gravel back to the main road and good asphalt all the way back to Yaoundé. It rained most of the time. We were stopped only once by police (it cost Simplice 3000 francs, refunded by me, of course [$7.50]), who, we figured, were needing beer money. They claimed that we shouldn’t be carrying the varan in our boot, since it looked like we had been poaching in the president’s backyard (his village is not far away and heavily patrolled) or some such story. Anyway, the varan then made its way to the floor of the back of the car, in case there were other stops on the way.

As they say here, we started arriving in Yaoundé at about 5:00, and dropped J.-P. off at his place (obligatory short visit to his place, he’s a tailor, which is good to know), then dropped Stéphanie’s luggage off at her place (near Simplice’s place as it turns out, and the two of them hit it off very well) along with the varan that she had agreed to prepare for everyone. Stéphanie then came along with us to accompany Jean-Vincent home, because she had a pile of “medicine from the village” to deliver and share with Jean-Vincent’s sister. Jean-Vincent, who lives in a house not far from me, insisted that Simplice would be able to drive him home, although, with the rain, I wasn’t sure that this would work, since the road to Jean-Vincent’s house is pretty much a mud-track. We did fairly well until we were half-way up a hill, slipping and sliding all over the place, and were faced with deep ruts into which the car slipped. Poor Simplice – he didn’t know whether to curse Jean-Vincent or not, because he had been sure it wouldn’t be passable (he’s taken Jean-Vincent home before). Anyway, there we were, stuck! So, we got out of the car, and, fortunately, a number of strong men showed up and lifted the taxi out of the ruts, so Simplice was able to back down. We emptied the car and left Jean-Vincent and Stéphanie to sort out how to get all these plantains, sugar canes, bananas, peanuts etc to his house, and Simplice drove me home. I have to say that I found all this quite exhausting, Simplice’s car not being the most comfortable of vehicles. The bum was very sore.

Anyway, it was about 6:30 when I got back home, unloading my share of gifts from the village: a whole bunch of plantains and the same of bananas, given to André and family. I also had a whole hare and I asked André to lop off two or three bits with meat on them, and gave them the rest, to their delight – although they were a bit sad that the entrails were not present (these had been eaten at the village). The next evening, Jean-Vincent and Stéphanie showed up, bringing me my share of the varan that had travelled back with us. All this meat is now in the freezer awaiting an opportune moment for consumption.

I shall leave you in peace now, my friends. Work life is quite busy as the school year has started, and routine has settled in. There is news on the André home front (sentinels, I tell you!), but that will have to wait for another burst of energy on my part, especially as this posting is already quite long.

Cheers!

David

Yaoundé, Sunday, March 8, 2009

Greetings!

Yes, it has been a very, very long time since my last posting! No excuses, really, just pure laziness. And this will be a very long posting, so be warned!

November and December were quiet months, quite humdrum really, which is all to the good. The rainy season ended in mid-December, which meant that I could go back to wearing sandals to my feet’s delight (I’m sure you’re interested!). Christmas was calm and celebrated in company of André and his family, all very pleasant. The two older boys had been given toy cellular telephones by their parents and were happily “calling” each other, and I gave them a toy truck each. The baby, poor thing, didn’t get anything, but was quite happy to coo at his brothers. Young David is really a charmer (but then, I’m prejudiced in his favour). He will be one in May.

January was a great month as I had some time off in order to benefit from Marion and Sonja’s visit here. They stayed for just over three weeks, and it was great to have time together and to explore the country. I can do no better than to copy Sonja’s narration of our various trips, with her permission, of course. It’s a long read, I warn you! No changes have been made to the text. Sonja, you may remember, has taken a six-month leave of absence from her job in order to travel; she went first to Nepal for a few weeks, and then took a tour of North African countries, including Egypt, Libya, Tunisia and Morocco before joining me here.

***

Cameroon was much more interesting than I expected it to be. It has quite a variety of climates (well, I guess at least 2...: jungle-like and desert-like).
My flight from Morocco arrived 3 or 4 hours late, meaning that I arrived at around 1 in the morning. Luckily my mother's flight was also quite late so she didn't have to wait for 7 hours at the airport - my father, his colleague, Roger, his colleague/weekend guard Oumarou, and Roger's friend Mme Fanta did however have to wait the 7 hours... I'm sure it was thrilling because the airport has two small places where you can buy drinks and about 30 waiting seats in total... My father had come prepared with hot tea, cold water andpeanuts for my mother. The airport is about a 45 minute drive from where my father lives, so they had planned to wait for both of us to arrive rather than ferry my mother to my father's house and then comeback to get me. Anyhow, I got off the plane, as one tends to do when one arrives, and rather dazed (I had been travelling for about 14 hours), I found that a lady was saying my name, so I nodded my headand followed her. I had been warned that someone would probably meet me to make sure that I could get through rapidly and not have to pay any bribes. We got through quite rapidly indeed; I met Roger at thebaggage carousel and waved to my parents who had not been allowed to enter the baggage area. My bag arrived (thankfully) and we set off to my father's house in a pick-up truck. We made pretty good time, onlybeing stopped once by some army people who "were thirsty" (which means that they would like 500 francs - a little over 1 CAD, which is what a rather large bottle of beer costs). We got through without payinganything because Mme Fanta seemed to know them. I find it a little worrying to be stopped by a man with an automatic riffle who is thirsty, but you can get used to it (mostly), even if you don't like it.

My Dad's house is quite large - three bedrooms, a kitchen, 2 shower/toilets, 1 toilet, a living room/study. The funniest thing about it is the rather large wall which looks like it has leopard spots - you'll have to refer to the photo (it turns out that this is quite popular on the outside of houses at least). The second funniest thing was the furniture, which was inherited from the person who had my father’s job before him: the sofas and armchairs are rather overstuffed (it turns out that these are quite popular as well – you can find them sitting by the roadside, for sale) and there are 4 of each as well as some rather large display type furniture for dishes. Upon arrival there we met André, the week guard, who is very nice. The next day we met Judith, my Dad's cleaner/salad maker (my Dad only eats salads in Cameroon - green and fruit - although he changed his diet when we were here, so we were able to eat some meat as well).Yaoundé is quite green. The impression that I had of it was of lots of one-storey quite small houses set amongst various plants (banana trees, palm trees, etc.) and vegetation and lots of hills. On our second day (the first was used to relax upon overstuffed sofas), we had an exciting outing into the centre of town, where we visited the Canadian High Commission, the Canadian Cooperation Office, the bank and supermarket (and the people therein). The centre has a few taller buildings, some with interesting architecture, but it is really quite small. We also visited the embassy/high class living area, but despite these two areas, the town feels quite provincial (it is the political capital, in case you don't know). We later were given a very complete town tour by Njikam, one of two of my Dad's trusty taxi drivers (my Dad does not have a car, nor does he seems to want to drive in town - it may look chaotic at first, but there is a system to the driving; it generally involves everyone entering an intersection and then taking turns going across it or changing directions, depending on what they want to do; but it does tend to feel like there might be too many cars in the intersection and they do seem to get rather close to each other, but then they aren't going very fast, and what's another bump to a car that is mostly falling apart anyway). Anyhow, back to the town tour... We were able to see how many hills there were (they call it the town on 7 hills because apparently wherever you are in town you can see seven hills; there are more than seven hills in total), visit some locations with nice views (although it was hard to see far because it usually seems to be quite hazy in Yaoundé), and ended up at the central market. I found the market a bit strange. It was one of these cases of the government building large market building but not that many people using it. It is round in shape and has quite a number of floors. The problem is that no one wants to climb up to the upper floors to shop, so only the first two or three floors are used for stores. The top does afford really nice views of the rest of the market that has set up shop all around the building (very colourful umbrellas and tons of fake CDs and DVDs). I guess we may have taken a few photos since some people asked us if we were from the BBC or RFI... I didn't see much food being sold there, so I think that people buy food at smaller neighbourhood markets (which I guess makes sense since quite a number of people probably don't have fridges and have to buy food every day, so having to travel all the way downtown to buy food wouldn't make sense). Oh, how could I forget??? We were shown probably every ministry in town (they seem to be the things to show tourists in Yaoundé). That afternoon, we went to the Don Bosco centre, where my father works, to be presented to all who were present. On another day, my Dad invited the entire office staff to a bar for drinks so that they could all meet us (the things you have to do); we escaped just after the dancing started, although not early enough for me not to have to refuse to dance. The Don Bosco centre provides carpentry, metallurgy, sewing and computer training along with acertain amount of normal training. It is currently headed by some Salesian church people. My Dad is involved with the computer training centre (in an administrative/teacher training function).One of my favourite mornings in Yaoundé was the one where we went for an accompanied walk (André wouldn't let us go out alone) through my father's neighbourhood. It was really interesting to be able to seeall the houses and the little shops made of corrugated iron and chicken netting, as well as all the plants. We went all the way to the end of the paved road and then a little along the dirt road, where we overlooked a neighbourhood that was built down into the valley. There are lots of neighbourhoods like that and I would think that they'd get rather wet and unpleasant during the rainy season. We went down a different dirt path where we viewed hair drying in the wind (ladies often add hair to their heads in Cameroon and I guess drying it on the washing line is as good a way to dry it as any) as well as many fruit trees, some rather large houses (and lots of small one) and some schools. It was nice to walk with André because no one bothered us, we didn't feel like we were trespassing and he explained all kinds of things to quite us.The first of three trips that we took was to the Lolodorf area, which is roughly south-east of Yaoundé. My Dad wasn't feeling well and wanted to get better before the big trip north, so my mother and I set off with Roger at the helm of the pick-up truck and André. Both of them are from the area that we were visiting so it was quite an interesting visit. On the way to Ebolowa, our first stop, we noticed these large cut-outs of stick men that were placed periodically along the road. Sometimes they were preceded by small signs saying "ici 3 morts". It seems that these are put up by the government in locations where there have been fatal accidents (and given the driving, more about that later, I'm not too surprised that there are a lot of stick men). InEbolowa, we met Judith, who was there visiting some of the 11 or so children for which she is responsible - various nieces and nephews, I believe). She took us to visit the town - through the market, then rather oddly (it seemed to me), through the hospital (and I mean through, we actually walked into the hospital and past various wards), then back through more market to the Don Bosco centre (there is a second, larger one, in Ebolowa). The road to Ebolowa was paved, but as soon as we left Ebolowa to head towards Lolodorf, the paved road ended. I heard rather a lot about the Lolodorf road being the route nationale numéro 1 (national road number 1) and how terrible it was that it was not paved. In the end I decided that when they gave itthat name (they being Roger and André), they meant that it was one of the first roads that had been made during the German colonization period. I guess since they came from the region along that road, itbothered them (and they certainly let us know that it bothered them, not a day went by without at least 10 references to it - the trip was only 2 days in length). They also went on about how the French had not left anything tangible in the country except for excessive bureaucracy (the French do not seem to be loved in Cameroon). Apparently the Germans, Spaniards and Americans (who were not all involved in colonization, in case you are wondering) left tangible reminders of their various projects here. This was also a subject that came up rather a lot (for example a metal bridge that was definitely not functional was shown to us as an example of what the Germans left, the bridge next to it had been built by the French but a middle supportpillar has now fallen down and so it can only be used for motorcycles and pedestrians, which apparently showed that the French left things that didn't last - personally I wouldn't have used the German bridge since it lacked a bottom surface. Another subject that came up fairly frequently was that the roads in the North were in much better state than those in the South. According to them all the roads in the North were paved. When we went North, I have to say that I found this not to be true. The main northern road had large sections with potholes and only two lanes, whereas in the south the main road was also two-lane but occasionally had a passing lane and also had shoulders. It turned out that neither Roger nor André had been north, so the state of the roads was all simply southern legend.Anyhow, we eventually arrived in Lolodorf after having driving past a large number of plants and trees and mountains. It is very green is that area, almost jungle-like. I found the house construction in the area interesting. They make a frame out of bamboo planks: vertical planks about 30 cm apart and horizontal planks about 15 cm apart. Then they fill the brick-sized holes with a mixture of earth and water. Those who have the means then cover the walls with a layer of cement and perhaps paint the walls, otherwise they are left as mud walls. They seem to last quite a while, although I believe they have to repair them periodically. André's family home was built by his mother over 20 years ago and still has most of the original mud work. When we arrived in Lolodorf, Roger, Mum and I went to a bar while André went to inquire about hotel rooms (so that they wouldn't see white skin and raise the prices, which apparently tends to happen). A lady invited us to sit at her table, saying that she wanted to talk to us (she said hello but that was all - to us at least). Opposite us was this rather morose looking army man, having a beer while leaning against hisautomatic rifle - not what I usually expect in a bar. André came back having successfully secured rooms. The hotel was fairly basic – the bathrooms had no running water, but they did provide a large containerof dubious smelling and looking water as well as a couple of buckets so that we could flush the toilet and "wash". We went for another "André walk" around Lolodorf, which was equally as interesting as thefirst, through the back roads, past a rather large number of churches of various denominations, but all with a church "bell", which consisted of a car wheel (without tire). Again, the town was very green. It also had a river that ran through it. That evening we were able to convince André and Roger that we could eat local food as long as it was well-cooked. André again went off in search of food, returning with two large, very nice fish. We had been having a drink on the lower terrace of the hotel when they started playing ratherloud music (and I again had to refuse to dance). We decided to repair to the upper terrace, where the music was still rather loud but at least there were no dancers, for supper. The hotel was the only place with electricity that evening (it had a generator). The power had apparently gone out the day before and still wasn't repaired. Apparently they sometimes go for weeks without power. We went to sleep despite the loud music (at least I did). Roger and André also went to bed fairly early to escape being expected to pay for people's drinks: they had families and friends in the area. They actually tend to not go back to their villages too often. Since they live in the city, their relatives and friends in the villages always expect some kind ofpresent (monetary being the best form) when they come to visit and it can get quite expensive. Although they do live in the city and perhaps earn more than those who live in the villages, living costs aredefinitely higher in the city and you can't grow your own food there. So it's actually quite hard for the city dwellers. They have to give out presents because the village is their insurance - if they lose their job in the city they can always come back to live in the village (but they have to stay on good terms with those who stay in the village). We (as in foreigners) are also expected to give out money left, right and centre - my father sometimes has to use the excuse that he is not "la banque mondiale" (the world bank) to get out ofgiving excessive amounts.The next day, we set of towards André's village, Mvile, without being able to fix the flat tire. We weren't able to get the flat tire fixed because of the lack of power in the town. This was a little worrying since the state of the road was perfect for the obtention of flat tires. We first stopped to visit Roger's grand-mother who is an impressive 103 years old and was recovering from an illness (Roger had been tending to her medical needs the night before). We went into her house to greet her. It was quite interesting to see the interior of a house. The floor was dirt; there was a bamboo bed, a little cooking area and a shelf area for keeping a few plates, etc. The other house interiors that I saw were much the same.Upon arrival in Mvile, we had to stop to buy some candy for the children in André's family and also for the pygmies. We kept being told that we would be seeing some pygmies. It seemed a little strange to bring them candy, but André was quite insistent that we bring some (according to him, the pygmies really like it). We then headed up to the catholic mission/hospital/school where a number of pygmies live and where André's brother also works. The mission is in a very nice location, on the top of a small hill with lovely views. We were again given a tour of the hospital, where we dutifully met some pygmies. Then we were told that we'd go to the pigmy house, where we'd be able to talk to some pygmies (we were assured that they were educated and spoke French). Honestly I would rather have skipped the visit, since it really seemed too odd. We were brought to the house, handed out the bag of candy (which they did open and share out straight away). Then they told me to take a photo of an older pygmy lady, so I did (and then had to pay for it). Then my mother tried to make polite conversation. We eventually headed off (thankfully) towards André's brother's house (with another candy-buying stop because the stocks were depleted due to extra unexpected candy giving to the children who were heading off to attend church at the mission). We met André's family, and were shown around the houses. We saw their palm wine distillery, which consisted of a couple of large pots with tubes going between them. The wine would drip slowly out of another tube into the awaiting bottle. It all looked very mad-scientist like. André had been waiting quite a while for this wine and came home with a 4L plastic container of wine. After talking to André's brother in his sitting room (he lived in a house with cement covered walls) - the subject being that the village youth needed ecumenical activities, or something like that, and providing a donation to his cause, we set off towards a couple of waterfalls. At the first waterfall viewing site, I challenged André to a race (he's the one who suggested that I could run up the road...), so we set off, stopping once he dropped his cigarettes. He seemed to find the race rather amusing.

The next stop was the hunt for the "pied de Jesus" (Jesus’ foot). The hunt was along a river and consisted of trying to find some marks in the river stones which had the shape of a foot. André found one, but apparently was unable to find the better one. It was fun to slip and slide along the river stones, in any case. The final tourist stop was at the Bidjoka falls, where Roger insisted on driving us as far as possible up the path even though this included driving down and back up a rather large ditch and almost getting stuck there. Having arrived at the top of the path, we had to turn back and wait for the older man who was bathing in the river to cover up. We then set off into the jungle, wadding through a river and then arriving at the falls, with a large number of children in tow (well they were actually ahead of us). At the falls, the children proceeded to strip and then provide us with an acrobatic show as they jumped from various rocks into the water or the waterfalls. The falls were quite impressive and the children wanted to be photographed. Oh, I forgot to mention that we drove past what they called a pygmy encampment (where we dropped one of the mission pygmies off). It was very neat with lots of identically painted cement houses (they looked nicer than a lot of the other houses in the area). Apparently the government built these in the area to encourage the pygmies to settle in these houses. Also apparently, it doesn't really work since they tend to disappear into the bush periodically, although they do seem to sometimes inhabit the encampment. I also didn't mention that in some of the villages there were houses that looked like they were entirely built out of cement. They are apparently from the German era. One of the strangest sites was at a crossroad in the middle of nowhere - this huge brick church. In general I found the villages in the area to appear much cleaner than in other countries. There were certainly fewer plastic bag trees. I later noticed that although the courtyards were clear of garbage, quite often the field/grassy bit next to the courtyard would have garbage in it.After lunch at André's village, where we ate bush rat (the other option was porcupine, and obviously you'd choose bush rat over porcupine...) and manioc sticks. We tore off towards Yaoundé. It had taken quite a while to get to the villages and waterfalls since the road was pretty full of potholes and rocks and generally dirt. Roger wanted to get back before dark (I wanted to get back alive...). Once we hit paved road, we really started to pick up speed. The first section of paved road was quite narrow - about wide enough for two cars, no shoulder and bushes right up to the road. There were potholes in strategic locations and people walking along the road (given the lack of shoulder). We were travelling at 140 km/h and I was sure that we'd either hit and kill someone or hit a pothole and go flying. We were driving down the middle of the road (I guess to avoid people and be able to navigate the potholes better), and I was glad that there was little oncoming traffic. We managed not to do either and stopped at a bigger town with electricity to have the tire repaired. Roger went off to have the tire repaired, while André was on guard duty with us at a drinking place. He eventually couldn't take the stress of worrying about his palm wine which he had accidentally left in theback of the pickup truck and left us to fend alone in the bar to go and make sure Roger was keeping an eye on the palm wine (which was fine; I spent the time keeping an eye on the tire reparations that were going on next door). Then we continued on our hair-raising journey - oh, I forgot to mention that during the first part to add to the excitement, Roger was falling asleep and refused my mother's hints that it would be fine to stop and take a nap (she hopefully encouraged him when he stopped at one point and she thought it was to sleep, but alas it was a pee stop). The next part was also at 140 km/h but at least this road had shoulders. His overtaking technique left a little to be desired, since it always seemed to involve overtaking on blind curves (or just before the extra passing lane, because it would be too much to wait an extra 100 m to pass). After we nearly had an accident, he did seem to take a little more care when overtaking. We were overtaking a large truck on a blind curve, as usual, when what should come towards us but a car (who would have thought!). We were about at the halfway point of the truck; there was no time to finish overtaking, nowhere to go on the right, except under the truck. Roger braked hard but it wasn't enough for us to get back behind the truck.Luckily the other car was able to go onto the shoulder. Roger's method of overtaking was used by many people so it wasn't his specialty. Even once we reached Yaoundé and we were about 100m from home, he was still overtaking people. I decided that the drive was scarier than being on a crowded bus in Nepal while overtaking another crowded bus on essentially a one lane road with a rather large drop on your right. Wemade it home in one piece, but I never want to be driven any long distance by Roger again.We did have one more trip with Roger. This was to the orphanage for which my parents had been raising funds (to build a new latrine). The orphanage is unofficial. It was set up by a lady and her husband. Theylook after about 45 kids in a rather small house. They have one large living area and then four rooms (big/small boys, big/little girls). The kids sleep several to a bed. The kitchen is in a small room external to the house. They grow some of their own food and use water from the river at the bottom of the property (which honestly did not look that clean - I'm hoping that they get their drinking water from elsewhere). The children all go to school in various private schools in the neighbourhood (the public school is too far away). I do not know how she manages to pay for all the school fees, food and such like since she gets no money from the government and I assume does not work outside the house (there being enough work inside the house). She must be a very good fund-raiser.After a few more days of lazing around it was time for the Trip Up North. We set off for the train station in the early evening. There is no paved road that links the South of Cameroon to the North for some reason, so driving up North or taking the bus would be a several day undertaking. So the train it was. The train left on time at 6:10 pm. It doesn’t really have an official arrival time since it’s quite flexible. We were in the wagon that had four beds to a compartment. Oumarou was accompanying us as a guide since he comes form the North. He was then going to be able to stay for a couple of weeks to visit his family. He hadn’t been back up in about 3 years. The bed carriages each had a guard to ensure that no one came to stand or sit in the corridor. We also had hostesses would came to ask us what we’d like for dinner and then delivered it. All very nice. There are also first class carriages, where everyone has a seat, and then there are the second class carriages that by the sound of it are very packed with things and people everywhere. There is a restaurant car, but it tends to have people sitting there throughout the night (unofficial tickets are sold to people so that they can get a seat there). I have to say that I would not want to travel for up to 18+ hours standing or sitting in the middle of an aisle.

The first bit of excitement occurred just after we started off. At some point there was a lot of noise andpeople shouting that someone should be caught. Someone had jumped off the train and the guards were after him! It turned out that he was wanted or something like that. The guards managed to catch him and brought him back on board the train. I believe they took him off the train at the next stop given the loud shouting I heard at the next stop. It was quite hot in the train. There was one window in the carriage. It was ok if you stood in the corridor but the room was sweltering. I was on a top bunk and in the middle of the night I wokeup just dripping with sweat (we were stopped so there was no air flow whatsoever). The train stops were entertaining. There were a few different types: the elegant stop (seldom used), the stop where you could hear that you were going to be stopping soon as you heard each carriage clunk against the one behind it, so you had some warning of the impending jolt, and the quick stop, where the lurch came without warning and you had to try to not fall off your bed (or not spill your food, if you happened to be eating at the time). At every stop, no matter the time of night, there were ladies and children selling food and drinks. Children would also ask for empty bottles. This seemed to be a theme up in the North, where everywhere we stopped we were asked for bottles. The next morning, we still hadn’t arrived by 8 and seemed to be quite far from our destination of Ngaounderé (about ½ way up the country). It was kind of nice because you were able to watch the scenery go past – villages, lots of trees, beehives constructed in trees (they were made by humans; I guess that bees are supposed to live in them and then the humans collect the honey), funny termite hills that looked like large mushrooms and cattle. We eventually arrived in Ngaounderé at noon.The driver that Oumarou had arranged had not made it to Ngaounderé since he had apparently broken down (later Oumarou decided that he hadn’t ever left Maroua). He found another taxi driver to take us to the hotel, but the driver had to drop someone else off first and was then going to come back to get us. After waiting for an hour, the taxi driver still hadn’t appeared so Oumarou went to look for another one and that is how we found Aboubakar. He drove us to the hotel and then we booked him to drive us around town and show us the sights in the afternoon. To make a long story short, we ended up hiring him to drive us up to Maroua (our Northern base) and then around the Maroua area for a week to replace Oumarou’s friend.Ngaounderé is relatively large. It had some nice rock piles: it looked like there were hills created out of huge boulders (there was doubtless dirt underneath). We climbed up the boulders (well I did in any case) to get a nice view of the town and the surrounding area (a few mountains, but fairly flat otherwise). We also saw the richest man’s compound and mosque – impressively large and ornate, both of them. Apart from that we toured the market area, saw some more mosques (the North is predominantly Muslim, while the South is predominantly Christian), as well as the outside of the local chief’s compound (we decided not to visit it because it was rather expensive).The next day we set off on the 473 km journey up to Maroua. The first stretch was up a mountain and then down a mountain. On the mountain there was quite a bit of forest and in the forest there were these things that looked like blue flags. It turned out that they were used to catch flies, although neither Aboubakar nor Oumarou knew what the flies were used for. After the mountain, we passed a large number of villages. Up here, the houses tended to be round and made purely of adobe (with straw roofs). They were usually several huts arranged in compound formation with some kind of granary in the middle of the compound. The compound walls were either made of reeds or just of the hut walls linked together. We passed loads of cow/bull herds – they are a bit different than North American cows because they have this hump on their backs. They all had very impressive horns as well. Other scenery consisted of people walking on cotton in huge shipping containers (it was cotton picking season), villages, forest, donkeys lined up in the shade of compound walls (for some reason I wasn’t expecting to see donkeys) and riverbeds with no water in them (we only saw one full riverbed and that was near a town called Garoua) – it was the dry season. Oddly, people seemed to be washing their clothes in the dry riverbed (more about this later). There wasn’t that much traffic but we did get caught up in a minister convoy (apparently out to see the state of the road, which was being repaired in many places – it needed it) and we also saw this very strange car being driven along: it looked like it had gone under a truck, there was just enough space on the driver’s side for someone to sit in there and apparently it still worked as someone was driving it (you could not have sat in the passenger side). That was one thing we noticed everywhere – car wrecks, but they were picked clean leaving just the metal carcass (almost like vultures had got to the cars). We also passed through a staged blockade: some kids had put small piles of mud along the road in an attempt to get cars to stop and give them money. In other places, we saw people who were filling in potholes and hoping that people would stop and give them money. Then there were the numerous police/army checkpoints as well as toll stations with their planks of spiky nails. We were only asked for our ID once, and the guy was sad to see that everything was in order. You have to carry your passport ID (or a certified copy of it) with you everywhere in Cameroon otherwise they can fine you. We arrived in Maroua in the late afternoon and went to our hotel. It was really nice, consisting of round cabins under a canopy of trees. The only downside was that it was right next to two main roads and the air was slightly blue.
The next morning, we got up early for our next adventure: driving to Rhumsiki where there were supposed to be some impressive rock formations (slightly south-west of Maroua). The drive to the next main town was along paved road, past the millet fields, people on bicycle and the ever-present small villages. Then the fun began: a rocky road again! You don’t really go that fast along that kind of road, so we bumped along (it is a good speed for taking pictures through the car window, however). The scenery was much drier than anything we had seen before and very rocky. Some of the houses were made of rocks rather than mud (or rocks held together by mud). There was also terraced agriculture. We had all kinds of interesting stops along the way as Aboubakar was very good at spotting things that might interest us and then taking us on a tour on foot. We went to inspect a cotton field (we hadn’t ever really been up close to a cotton plant before) and onour way back to the car saw some ladies carrying what looked like half a tree trunk on their heads (it’s amazing what people can carry on their heads). Then we stopped at someone’s house and asked forpermission to inspect their granary implementation: it was a raised platform with grain on top of it (rather than a mud enclosure). They also had corn hanging up in the trees to dry. Next we saw people picking cotton and got out to see how it is done (we did a little cotton-picking ourselves). Then a stop (or was it tens of stops…) to take photos of the scenery. At one stop, I decided that it was time for the Sonja in Cameroon photo (I have a series of photos of me in the distance in various countries, for my own personal amusement), so I handed my camera to my mother and ran down a suitable distance to stand next to some large boulders and have my photo taken. I then noticed that there were some ladies behind the boulders. They signalled to me to come to see them, so I went. They were harvesting peanuts. It looked really hard and slow: they basically bashed the earth with a dull metal instrument to find the peanuts and collect them. It was at this point that we met our first potential Rhumsiki guide (we were still a couple of hours by slow car from there), whom we refused. We were starting to be able to see the spindly rocks that we were heading towards.Up next was the motorcycle with goat: I saw this motorcycle go by with two men on it. In between them, sitting sideways was a goat. It was starring placidly about itself, looking very contented. You would see many things on bicycles: families of 5, three or four adults, huge loads. There weren’t that many cars about, and most taxi cars and vans were absolutely cram-packed and looked like their axles were going to hit the road. There would usually be people hanging off the back of the vans as well.We made it to Mogode, the village before Rhumsiki, where we got out to view some of the rock formations. A boy decided that he was going to be our guide. I didn’t want a guide, since it was pretty obvious wherethe rock was, but it seemed that we didn’t have a choice. In the end it was ok because he was nice, didn’t ask about money and we had an interesting conversation. We walked towards the rocks (leaving my dad to guard the car, his preferred state when walking is involved), and saw little clusters of houses some with bicycle tires being used to tie the top of their straw roofs together. We also saw two huge vultures that kept hopping away from us (I wanted to be able to see them more closely but they weren’t cooperating). The rock was quite impressive, rising straight out of the earth and in the shape of a thumb. When we got back to the car, potential Rhumsiki guide number 2 was there, trying to get us to sign up for an expensive meal and tourof the town, which we again refused. We set off towards Rhumsiki once more and came upon a beautiful valley carved out in front of us with this cone shaped hill in the middle of it. It was really quite impressive. We could see Rhumsiki on the other side of the valley. At this point, potential guide number three had shown up, so I suggested that since we had now pretty much seen the same view as we would see from Rhumsiki, we should turn back and avoid it. It had been a really nice day up to that point and I didn’t want it to be spoilt by getting hounded by people in a touristy town. So we turned back and headed slowly back to Maroua (due to road conditions that definitely proved that not all roads in the North were paved). One thing that amazed me on this trip was the number of churches that I saw, since the area is apparently predominantly Muslim. Again, pretty much every denomination under the sun was present including Jehovah’s witnesses.The next day our early start saw us on the road towards Pouss to see the “Cases Obus-Mousgoum” (I like that name). We started off on the bitumée road (which apparently meant well-packed down dirt with norocks, but lots of dips) and then there was a goudronnée section (which means paved) and then bitumée again (very strange since the paved part seemed to be in the middle of nowhere and there were no other paved roads linked to this section). At one point on the right side of the road a large hill appeared. It seemed to be man-made and went on for kilometres. There were people walking and biking along the ridge at the top. Eventually we stopped for my mother to take some pictures of birds and my father and I decided to go and see what was on the other side of the small hill: it was the Maga lake, a man-made lake. It was pretty huge, I have to admit. Unfortunately, my mother slipped and fell on the way down and hurt her ribs. We then proceeded to help her ribs heal by driving along bumpy roads for the next 5 days… We eventually found the case Obus. They are huts, again made of mud, but they are conical in shape, with ridges up the side and a hole at the top. They were built in the form of a compound and joined together by mud walls. The walls were also painted. I saw a number of painted walls in this area (different from any other area). We were able to go inside these ones (they were a display set because this type of house is not being constructed that much anymore). The claim is that it is always about 10 C inside the houses. By my thermometer, it was quite a bit hotter in there, but it was cooler than it was outside. One set of houses had a secret passage between them (in fact the second building did not have a door). It was neat to duck between the two. I guess they put up something to conceal the door to evade the enemy or something like that. The best part about the houses is that you could climb up the outside with the help of a rope, which I did. I’m sure my mother has photos of it that I will not be including in this e-mail… There was also a circle of mud chairs under a treeoutside the compound.Back in Maroua, we had time to explore this leafy town. Aside from the air quality I think that I liked the layout of Maroua better than Yaoundé. There were some larger streets lined with trees (very useful given the scalding sun). We walked over the bridge and viewed the people seemingly washing their clothes in the sand. Then we worked out what was going on. People were digging into the riverbed until they found water, then washing their clothes before laying them out to dry on the riverbed! After walking for a while along the not very exciting main road, we turned back towards the river and walked across the riverbed (most amusing!) to the shaded tree area on the other side and then back to the hotel. At this point we passed the people that I thought had been selling honey in reused 2 L bottles. It turned out that they were not selling honey, but petrol (it’s an easy mistake to make since the colour and containers were the same; the consistency, perhaps not). Then we headed by car to the “dent de Mindif” (literally Mindif tooth), this strange rock formation that did look like a tooth. The most impressive part about it was that it was a huge rock all by itself. The plain went on as far as I could see around it. It felt like we were in a savannah at this point, I have to say. We also drove past some people hanging out animal pelts to dry – apparently thereis a lot of leather work done in Northern Cameroon.Our next day trip was to Mora to drop Oumarou off near his village (we thought he was from Mora, but in fact he was another 1 hour motorcycle ride away – you could only really get to his village on foot or bymotorcycle). On our way to Mora we saw loads of people on bicycles with three or four 16 L plastic containers on their bikes – apparently full of cheap petrol from Nigeria (the Nigeria and Chad borders arevery close in the north of Cameroon). In Mora, we went to the little clinic where one of Oumarou’s cousins worked. After visiting the clinic, we pilled into the clinic 4x4 to visit Oudjilla. Originally I had wanted to visit Oudjilla and had thought that we should drive in a loop up to Mora. Luckily we decided not to do the loop because there was no way a normal car could have got up that road. The “road” twisted up a mountain and was incredibly rocky and bumpy. There were some fine views of the valley and the little villages all around. Oudjilla was a fairly sizable village that wound its way up the top of a mountain; consisting of lots of round huts made of stone and lots of terraces. It was very rocky land up there. We went to visit the chief’s compound. The chief was sitting outside and we greeted him before entering. He has 50 wives but only 112 children (I say only because it’s quite a low average of children per wife). Inside the compound we first entered the hut where tribunals are held. The next communicating hut held the tomb of the chief’s father (a chief must never be buried in the sunlight and is usually buried in his hut, apparently). Then it was into another communicating hut which on its far side lived a bull that I think had been there most of its life –its destiny is to be sacrificed at a festival. Then back down to a communicating hut where three containers were placed, one symbolizing the present village and one the previous (not sure what the third symbolized). Then out to the fresh air and one of the rather cramped women’s quarters. Each wife has one hut for sleeping, a kitchen hut and two granaries. About 8 wives share a compound. The daughters sleep with their mother and the sons with their mother until they are 8 or so at which point they go to sleep in the boys’ hut. 25 wives prepare breakfast and 25 prepare supper for the entire family. The granaries were quite tall and we had the fun of seeing a lady come out of one. When we first came into the compound we were told that there was someone in one of the granaries. This didn’t seem possible since the opening was about 2 m off the ground and the hole was about 60 cm in diameter. But then she stuck her head out… She then proceeded to hand her bowl of peanuts to our guide and slither out feet first, landing on the y-shaped stick that was leaning against the granary. Apparently there is a ladder built into the granary, but I still haven’t completely worked out how they get in there, especially when there isn’t much left inside to land on. I would think that she’d have to go in head first, but I don’t know how she’d get herself onto the ladder in that case. In any case, I don’t think they can allow themselves to get very fat, or else they wouldn’t be able to get the grain (but perhaps that is how it works – you’re too big to get into the granary so you don’t eat and then you can get in again!). In any case, it was one of the more amusing things I saw. We continued on our tour up tothe top of the compound where there were some amazing views of the surrounding valley and mountains. On our way out we bid adieu to the chief who was now watching music videos with some kids in front of hishouse! You could tell that tourists had come through this area because the children’s roadside chorus had changes from “bonne année” (happy new year) to “cadeau” (present). We also saw a van load of tourists ontheir way up.We went back to Mora and walked around the market a bit, which was quite interesting: tons of coloured flip flops, lots of corn, beans, and other grains for sale, vegetable, fruits, etc.
We passed “Obama” town on the way back into Maroua. I think the real name of the village was Ojabama, but someone had crossed it out and renamed it. It was quite amazing to see the number of Obama bars andcafes that were sprouting up around the country. Everyone was talking about him (this was just before his inauguration) and Roger was often to be heard saying: “Perhaps one day we’ll get an Obama”.Our final northern day trip was to the Waza national animal park. We drove the furthest north that we had been this far along increasingly pot-holed roads with more and more large trucks on the road (heading to Ndjamena in Chad, which is just across the border). We even saw a World Food Bank convoy at one point as well as a garbage truck convoy (apparently a Cameroon company had got the contract for picking upNdjamena’s garbage). Our first stop was fairly unpleasant. We had hired a 4x4 truck for this trip and Aboubakar had come along for the ride. Aboubakar and the driver wanted to have breakfast so we stoppedin a market town and they got out. It took quite a while and in the meantime we were cloistered inside the truck with tons of kids standing around the truck asking us for food and money. Eventually we started off again and passed an interesting area where they were dousing little fields of green onion with water using a cantilever like method to haul water out of the ground. We passed the park boundaries and started to look for animals. The first ones I saw were phacochères (essentially wild pigs). This did not seem like a good omen due to the time my family went to view animals in a wildlife park in Togo and pretty much all we saw were phacochères… Next up were some homo-sapiens in the distance, apparently digging for fish in the mud (not sure what kind of fish…). Then we reached the park entrance, where we picked up the required guide and went to stand in the back of the truck (which was fun and gave you a much better view, until such time as you got burnt due to the rather strong sun). We saw pheasants, herds of damalisk, hippotragues (I liked that name, they were some kind of antelope/horse things), lots of birds and some cobs. Our only sighting of lions was of their footprints (apparently seeing the lions is quite hard) and of elephants, their turds. Funnily enough, Aboubakar decided to bring some back to his sister since she had never seen any and, also, because some kind of medication was prepared from them (yuck!), so a few turds (dried) were placed in the back of the truck. At one point we were trying to get a photo of a blue bird. The driver kindly stopped in all sorts of locations and we went back and forth in an effort to take a photo. They kept flying away! Obviously, they didn’t realize that we had paid the camera fee to the park so we wereentitled to take their photo! What I had been hoping to see were giraffes. We had seen one in the distance, but near the end of the tour we had the luck of coming upon a herd of about 10 of them. The guide, my mother and I got out of the truck and approached them as quietly as possible. The giraffes were quite funny as some seemed to be trying to hide behind the trees and would then peek their heads out to get a look at us. At one point we stopped and stood still and watched at the giraffes as they looked curiously back at us. This was definitely the best experience of the trip. Later we were able to see a giraffe running along as well as an ostrich. Once we had found the giraffes, the guide kind of lost interest and started reading a book. We only saw the ostrich thanks to Dad and Aboubakar who were still standing in the back. One funny moment was when we stopped for a snack. Aboubakar finished his pack of cookies and just tossed the packet onto the ground (as people tend to do in Cameroon). The guide noticed and worriedly picked it up. Just after that Aboubakar threw something else out and the guide ran after it and picked it up. At least they train the guides well (although he didn’t say anything to Aboubakar)!Back in Maroua, Aboubakar gathered up the various fruit and elephant turds that he had collected in the park and placed them in the back of his taxi, which was literally overflowing with bottles. His sister makes a type of juice and needs bottles in which to sell it, so he had asked if we could give our used bottle to him. Since we couldn’t leave them in the hotel room or someone else would abscond with these much sought after items, we were placing them in the back of his car each morning. It was kind of hard to say to the kids along the way that we didn’t have any bottles for them when the back of the car was full of them… Apparently a lot of kids find them useful to carry water with them when they go out to herd the cattle.The Trip Up North was coming to an end so we headed back to Ngaounderé with some slight detours. The first stop was at a marble field where there were supposed to be what they called peintures rupestres (very old rock paintings) and dinosaur footprints. We walked all around the field including in an area that looked like the one in the guide book with a broken fence but we couldn’t find anything remotely looking like either of these things. Still it was neat to walk in a field of marble. Next up was the Gorge de Kola. We drove up and stopped in front of what looked like a river bed full of black rock with white stripes. Somewhere in there was a gorge… The guide showed us the way, and sure enough there is was: probably about 5 or 6 m deep. It really wasn’t visible from afar though. I went down with Aboubakar and the guide (my parents didn’t have the right kind of footwear) and walked along the bottom of the gorge complete with its trickle ofwater. The rocks were really smooth and there were some little cavities that looked like little caves. It was very pretty because of the white patterns in the rock. We came out the other side and then went back down with my mother along an easier route. Definitely worth going to if you ever happen to be in the area… Soon after coming out of the gorge we developed a flat tire (it was amazing that this hadn’t happened earlier). When we stopped we thought it was because there was a large tractor trailer on its side, but no, it was the tire. It was changed very fast and we were back on our way. We saw quite a number of recent wrecks on the way back including a petrol truck (which explained the large number of containers on the road preceding itslocation). We also saw some monkeys in the trees by the side of the road. The other noticeable thing on the way back was the large number of fires. It also appeared that there had been quite a fire along the road during the week we had been up there. Unfortunately some of it was in another wildlife park.Back in Ngaounderé, at the hotel, no one rushed up to relieve us of our bags (and get a tip). There was someone at the front desk but no one else seemed to be around. Ah yes, it was time to watch Obama on his way to his inauguration! We went up to our room and put on the TV. We ended up watching it on CRTV (Cameroon TV) because we could hear the speech in English. CRTV is rather interesting. In case you don’t know, both English and French are official languages in Cameroon. The TV station is in both languages, but unusually rather than have some programs in French and some in English, they just mix it all up. So we watched this round table of experts where one would answer in English and another in French. I have no idea how most Cameroonians understand the programs because in general I found that the francophone ones could not speak English. However, it was handy since they retransmitted CNN’s broadcast so we didn’t have to listen to an interpreter instead of the man himself.We had an extra day in Ngaounderé, required because the train tickets had to be picked up. Aboubakar suggested some things to see, so we went to visit a volcanic lake, where I saw some very pretty purple birds, as I hiked around it. We also visited a very impressive waterfall, where we were able to walk right up to the part where the water flowed down. It looked like ice formations were flowing down. Very impressive. It wasn’t as large as it could have been since it was the dry season (but then we wouldn’t have been able to get so close to it). Our final destination was a ranch hotel, to which my father plans to return. It is set near a lake, where I got to kayak a bit, and is very peaceful. We drove past so much red vegetation. The roads are so dusty that the plants get absolutely coated with dust. Back in Ngaounderé, we had time for a nap and a shower before setting off to the train station. The trip wasn’t quite as nice because we had to eat our meal in the restaurant car, where it felt like we were being rather observed and taking up other people’s seats (there was no hostess for our carriage for some reason). But on the plus side, we arrived quite early, before 8 o’clock. Our final outing was a three-day trip roughly north-west of Yaoundé to Foumban with Njikam (who is from Foumban). The drive there was pretty uneventful. It was certainly colder in the area. Apparently they only have a 3-month dry season. I can’t imagine living in Foumban the rest of the time because it is very hilly and only seems to have a few paved roads. It must be absolutely full of mud the rest of the time. We started to see the tin pyramid shaped roofs of the region’s dignitary houses, as well as lots of clothes bushes (people put their clothes out to dry on the bushes). I think we did have our ID checked a couple of times. We were travelling in a taxi-coloured car this time, so it we were an easy mark (Njikam had to cover the taxi numberand the fare sheet with paper so as not to get a fine for driving a Yaoundé taxi outside Yaoundé. He also needed proof that the car’s owner had allowed the car out of the city. With Aboubakar, we had had a normal coloured car, so we weren’t stopped quite as much). In all, we were never required to pay a bribe, which was nice.We stayed at the Prunier Rouge hotel, which was rather dark and slightly drab and coming apart at the seams, but other than that ok. It certainly had a nice view of the town. Across the street was the restaurant that was to become our supper and breakfast stop: the La Fourchette restaurant run by a nice family. Their older daughter would carefully set the table for us and the two daughters and the mother would serve us delicious food.We went to try and visit a lake, but missed the turnoff so went to visit another one first. This was the Petponoun lake, which turned out to be private property. It was the property of this rather exclusive-looking club with a manicured golf course, cabins in which to stay, a very expensive restaurant (a drink cost 5 times what it would in a normal bar). Well, it was expensive in general and the only way to join the club was to have someone recommend you. It even had a landing strip next to it (for small planes!). Not quite the place for a beat up taxi but we went in for a look around anyway, pretending that my Dad might be interested in joining… It was funny to see the manicured golf course next to the normal land next to it (which I assume is what the golf course used to resemble). Back to the main road, where we found the correct turn off and headed to the lake. It turned out that they wanted us to pay quite a princely sum to go and see the lake. Njikam tried to bargain with them but it didn’t work. He got annoyed so we turned back. Apparently the lake is neat because it changes colours. When we got back to the hotel I looked at my mother and I couldn’t stop laughing. She had dirt all over her face (from dust blowing in through the window, which was our air-conditioning system). I have to say that after each day of driving your hair would feel really stiff because of all the dirt in it. In the afternoon, Njikam drove us to all kinds of viewpoints in Foumban, making us see how very hilly it was.On the way back to Foumban, we stopped to see someone making mud bricks. Basically they mix dirt and mud together (with a stick and by stepping on it). Then they put the mixture in a bucket and bring it to the mold (four-sided only). They wet the inside of the mould and pack it full of mud, smooth down the top and remove the mold and it holds in place. They then have to let it dry for about 2 weeks. It’s important to do the building when it’s not raining or the bricks will deteriorate. You also have to build and put the roof on before the rain starts.The next day, we tried to walk to the art museum (Foumban is apparently one of the most recognized art centres in Africa). Unfortunately the road that leads to it filled with shops selling art. We had to go into one because an older man asked us in (it would have been easier for us to say no if Njikam hadn’t been with us; we had to be careful not to cause problems for him). Then since we had gone into that shop, we were now obliged to go into all the others. In the end we realized that we would not make it to the museum in time to then go to the palace so we invented a meeting that we had to get to and turned back. There are some pretty impressive very large sculptures for sale in Foumban. They are larger than real life people. The sultan’s palace (they have a sultan instead of a chief for some reason) was quite interesting. The building itself is very European looking (the sultan who designed it was inspired by a German colonial building), but the museum has some interesting items inside it, such as some very pretty bead covered artwork, a cloak made of human scalps, calabashes ornamented with human jaws (all from enemies), the clothing and walking sticks of one sultan who was 2.6 m tall! At the end we were allowed to peer into the throne room where some very pretty beaded thrones were located. Unfortunately you couldn’t take photos. Previously a sultan’s throne was buried with him, but since conversion to Islam, they have stopped doing this. Therefore, thereare a number of thrones in the room. Each new sultan can use his predecessors’ thrones but he must at some point have one made specifically for him. Quite often the thrones have large figurines of twins behind the seat (like the backrest) since twins are considered sacred. In fact twins used to (perhaps still are?) be given to the sultan once they reached the age of 8. The girls would become wives and the boys would work in the court. One of the sultans actually came up with a new alphabet and language, so in a few places in Foumban you will see some words written in this language (that very few people still know how to read and write or speak, I believe it was originally a secret court language). Every year there is a festival during which people are allowed to criticize the sultan. He must address the critiques. I believe that it is also possible for the people to depose him. The next sultan is chosen by the current sultan, the only criteria being that he must be his son and his mother must be from Foumban (so for example the current sultan who was married to only one woman from Kribi when he became sultan had to marry a lady from Foumban when he became sultan). We went straight from the palace to the market and the mosque to avoid the art shops. We walked through the market and came out a side entrance to get back to the main road avoiding all shops. I would have liked to have seen some of the art work but I wasn’t prepared to spend all afternoon doing so, and apparently we would have been obliged to go into each shop.So we headed back to the hotel for a short break and then it was on to the family visits. The first was out to Njikam’s wife’s village, where we sat in her mother’s house. The house was very dark and she had thiscabinet with four sets of large pans (they didn’t look used). In fact she was expecting another child (and so is her daughter). Apparently her husband told her to remember that he was a man and she was a womanand that her job was to have more kids… She already has 8 or something like that and the father has 4 wives (and something like 28 kids). On the way to the village we had to drive across a bridge that was pretty much made of planks of wood. We all got out (except Njikam) and then we had to direct him over the planks since he had to move over to different planks half way across (the others being rotten). We surprisingly made it across both ways… We then toured the village visiting everyone and paying our respects to one family who was having a funeral. This kind of thing is odd because you get invited into a sitting room where you all sit around on chairs and don’t say much until such time as it’s time to move on (not quite sure how that isdecided). Then it was back to Foumban to visit Njikam’s family, which while it consisted of visiting many more people went a lot faster since we only sat down in a few places (including one of the town’s imam, who happens to be Njikam’s uncle).On our way back to Yaoundé we stopped at Bandjoun to see the chief’s area (of the Bamileke tribe). They were rebuilding the main hut because a fire burnt it down a few years ago. The huts in the compound were absolutely humongous and the main hut had pillars a bit like totem poles with all sorts of figurines carved out on them. It was pretty neat. We couldn’t go into the hut, but we were able to visit the museum which had a lot of beautiful chief thrones, dancers’ costumes and masks. There were so many ID checks on the way back that it wasn’t funny. In one case I think we were stopped 2 km apart (by two different types of police/military people). Still we managed to get through without paying anything, although they tried quite hard to find something that was out of order.I left Cameroon a couple of days later. On the way to the airport there was a military person with a large gun every 500m or so. There were also some perched on balconies and rooftops. It turned out that the president, Paul Biya, had left to visit his village in the morning and was returning in the evening, presumably by plane. We made it to the airport without having to stop for the president. I checked in and then went through basic security before going through Swiss Air security where everyone was given a full pat down treatment and most bags were completely searched. It was extremely hot inside the airport for some reason (much hotter than outside) and I was dripping in my long sleeved shirt (worn in preparation for cold arrival in Paris). Wegot on the plane and then were told that unfortunately the pilot had just been told that the airport was closed because the president was arriving. He didn’t know how long we’d have to wait because he wasn’t the president. I guess that at least it is an unusual reason to be delayed (more exciting than mechanical problems or weather reasons). We ended up leaving a worrying hour late (worrying because I only had 1 hour to make my connection) and did the 20 minute ridiculous hop to Douala (the economic capital) – you literally fly up then down again, it’s only about 300 km away. Then we were off to Zurich where we actually arrived on time. Made my connection and had a beautiful view of the top of the Alps above the clouds.

***

As you can tell, it was a most enjoyable time! Sonja is now in Nicaragua, where she is volunteering for a few months before returning to Vancouver, and Marion is buried in snow in Fredericton while attempting to translate politicians’ wise utterances. One thing that I need to add is that, while in Maroua, we linked up with Sid Woolfrey, a Newfoundlander whom I had met a few years ago. Sid was one of the people who trained me for Intensive French (the program that kept me ultra busy during my last three years at the Department of Education), and, since retiring about 18 months ago, has been working as a VSO volunteer in Kaélé, a small town about an hour south of Maroua, where there is a teacher training college. It was rather fun to link up again and to see how much Sid is enjoying his Cameroonian experience.

Life was a bit dull for a few days after the ladies’ departure, I must confess, but that soon changed as two colleagues from Canada arrived, one for two weeks and one for three weeks. It’s the time of year when the annual report for the project has to be prepared as well as the action plan for the next year, both to be submitted to CIDA for approval. As you can imagine, this entailed a lot of work, meetings, consultations, writing and rewriting. All fun, really, as the exercise makes you realize what has indeed been accomplished and what remains to be done. Very good for the soul, I’m sure. The second colleague left on February 28 and it has taken me the best part of 10 days to recover from the Canadian pace of work! There is still some work to be done on the reports (year-end being March 31), but basically they are ready.

The excitement in Yaoundé at the moment are the preparations for the Pope’s visit. He is due to arrive in Yaoundé on March 17 and stay for four days, on his way to Angola, where he will celebrate the 500th anniversary since the evangelization of that country. The stop in Yaoundé is to prepare for a big meeting that will take place in Rome in the fall (African Catholic Congress, I believe). A number of heads of state are expected, as well as hundreds of bishops from all countries of the continent. As a consequence, Yaoundé is prettying itself up. This entails building (finally) the two towers of the Cathedral, paving a few roads (the Pope’s itinerary is a “secret” and getting rid of vendors’ stalls and other unsightly elements (such as beggars) from the city centre. People are not happy, and with reason. Yesterday, for example, on my way to the supermarket, we had to turn back because there was resistance from vendors in one area of town to the orders to disperse. Water tankerss had been brought in, the army was out in full force and people were being forcibly removed. As Njikam said, how are these people going to earn their living for the next three weeks? A bit sad, to be honest. I plan to stay at home for the next couple of weeks, having stocked up!

This being International Woman’s Day, there are a lot of festivities in Yaoundé today (they take this day very seriously). I am expected to show up for the dinner that is being put on at the Centre (prepared by the women, go figure), and that will be the second excitement of the weekend. It’s almost too much…

On that note, my friends, I shall leave you. I hope that this finds you well and that you’ll forgive the long silence.

Cheers!

David

Yaoundé, November 10, 2008

Greetings!

A year exactly since I arrived in Cameroon! Time flies, especially when one is having fun!

The last six weeks have been fairly quiet, which is no doubt a good thing, but offering little fodder for amusing incidents. But I’ll do my best to make a humdrum existence sound fascinating.

When I last wrote a piece for this blog, I was in the throes of a fairly intense time, since two Canadian consultants were here to contribute to the activities of the project for which I work. One of them, Cyrille Simard, was here for a week, working on the development of the new Web site for the Centre as well as on the Strategic Plan that we are developing for the Centre’s future. The second consultant, Lorio Roy, spent a total of three weeks here. His basic objective is to set up an administrative system that works better than the one that is now in existence. Given that there isn’t really a system at the moment, this is no mean challenge! Basically, Père Natalino rules.

However, Père Natalino has expressed what we think is a sincere wish to have things work differently. He’s set up a Comité directeur (last May), and his hope is that, ultimately, this committee will be empowered (how I hate that word, but nothing else really fits in this case) to make decisions on the general running of the Centre as well as its orientations. Natalino admits that he himself has a lot to learn, since he is an autocratic by nature and knows that he has to learn to delegate. I think he knows himself quite well and is aware that he will have great difficulty in letting go and accepting that others may make decisions that he’s not keen on. What we don’t know yet, and Lorio is trying to find out, is how much of a free hand le père has been given by the Salesians, the Catholic congregation which set up the Centre, to shape things up. The problem with the Catholic Church and its various congregations is that everything is very hierarchical, the boss always being right, right up to the top (papal infallibility), so we’re not sure yet to what extent we can “modernize” the administration. It’s all quite fun, I must admit, and as part of my role is also to provide “institutional reinforcement”, my work with Lorio has been very rewarding and a great learning experience. Not to mention the fact that he’s great fun to be around! We went from meeting to meeting (either groups, or people on their own), making notes, making plans on how we can start to institute the various changes that we feel are necessary, starting with the way the Comité directeur works (basic things like how to run a meeting, sending the agenda around prior to the meeting, etc.) so that it can ultimately learn how to make decisions. His big plan, and a necessary one, is to get Père Natalino to understand how to set up a budget that makes sense, and, at the same time, ensure that all the heads of department have a hand in setting the budgets for their own departments. It will no doubt take a couple of years to reach this goal.

As if I weren’t busy enough, one of my colleagues, Jean-Philippe, who teaches graphics, asked me if I would be kind enough to translate a little booklet that he had been given, from English to French. I almost refused, I must say, as I really don’t enjoy translating, but finally said that I’d do it, but that it would take a while. It’s not a very big booklet, fortunately, in terms of number of words, but fairly technical and so is proving to be fairly slow work. I suppose it keeps me out of mischief, and gives me something to do in the evenings (I do a bit every day).

Hmm, what else has happened? I led yet another one-day workshop in mid-October, and I’ve sat in a number of classes, observing both students and teachers (this is to give me fodder for the said workshops!). I bought a new mattress – this is exciting news, I tell you! The mattress that came with the bed (you’ll remember that I inherited a houseful of furniture from my predecessor) was pretty well dead; it was a foam mattress that had obviously suffered from spending nearly two years in a closed container, and my back was having a hard time with it. There are three beds, hence three mattresses, and I spent a few weeks trying them all, to no avail. So, the hunt for a mattress began. Ah, the hunt! Shopping in Cameroon is very much a hunt (makes one feel like Man, I tell you, when one succeeds!). There are innumerable places that sell mattresses, that isn’t the problem; the problem is finding a hard mattress! These are fairly expensive items and most Cameroonians, therefore, don’t buy them and it is thus very difficult to find them. Daily forays took place over four or five days (with Njikam) before, at last, we found a little shop, a hole in the wall, really, which had what I was looking for. Then, a couple of hours were needed to bargain the price down to a reasonable amount. It wouldn’t have done to let the man know that, by this point, I was willing to pay any price to get a good mattress! Matters were finally concluded to mutual satisfaction. Having tied the mattress to the roof of the taxi, Njikam took us back to the house by various very bumpy back roads, all to avoid any police checkpoints. It seems that taxis are not supposed to carry things on their roofs (you could have fooled me!), so policemen take great pleasure in stopping taxis doing so and exacting a little “present” from the driver so that the latter can avoid receiving a fine. We made it home without a problem, and I’ve been sleeping extremely well since, thank you very much, with nary a back ache, for which I’m truly grateful!

However, on the health side, I managed to catch a cold. I’m sure you feel very sorry for me; it was quite a major one and it was a good two weeks before it finally gave up and moved on. The other minor health problem was an “attack” of eczema in both my ears. Actually, this has been going on for a few years and, while a bit of a pain, hadn’t been too bothersome, although I’d been scratching my ears regularly for a while (starting to feel a bit canine!). Anyway, the itching became worse and worse here, so I consulted a doctor (yes, I had done so in Canada also!) who prescribed a cream that I’ve been dutifully putting on daily for a few weeks. The itching has disappeared and the eczema nearly so as I write. One of the ears (the half-deaf one, the right) also developed a sort of fungus (visions of mushrooms for supper?) due, the doctor thinks, to the high humidity of the moment and also because I’d had to put cream on to kill the eczema, thus causing the ear not being able to breathe, as it were. Anyway, all is under control as I continue to lather creams on my ears (different potions for each ear) and nothing itches! Again, I’m sure you’re fascinated by all these details…

You may remember that I mentioned, in my last posting, that a number of teachers from our “competition” had attended the workshop that I offered back in July. One of them, Jacques Jude, the Director of studies for the said organization, called PowerBache, whom I’d met in the course of my work with the Ministry (the development of curriculum documents), called me, one Friday, inviting me to a celebration in honour of his birthday, which is how he put it, and made a point of mentioning that his mother, aged 70, was coming up for the occasion.

Well, it’s not as if I lead a hectic social life (one night a month at a reception at the Canadian High Commission hardly counts as a social life!), so of course I said that I’d be delighted to go. I’d been invited for 5 p.m., but figured I should arrive late. Jacques Jude had suggested that I call when I had reached a certain spot, near the University, and he would come and meet us. Simplice, the “other” taxi driver, duly came to pick me up at 5, and it was about 5:30 when we reached the outskirts of the University. Jacques Jude duly came to meet us twenty minutes after we arrived, got in the taxi, with a couple of other guests, and proceeded to guide Simplice through a maze of little dirt alley-ways behind the University. Basically, I gather, this is an area where a lot of students live (surprise!) and there were lots of little boutiques selling all kinds of things, as well as little bars etc. I’m sure it wasn’t a long distance, but it felt like we were burrowing into the depths of Yaoundé, and it was getting dark… So I said to Simplice that I was hiring him for the rest of the evening, because I wanted him to be around when it was time to go. I didn’t fancy having to call and then having to wait half-an-hour before he could show up later on, and also not being sure whether he would be able to find his way again in the dark. Not that one should worry overly about these things, since taxi drivers have phenomenal memories, but one never knows…

Anyway, we arrived at the place where the celebration was taking place, an open hall, covered with a tin roof. People were dancing and I thought, quite surprised, that the party had started quite early… Usually, things don’t get going until 10 or so. Anyway, Jacques Jude bade us welcome and in we walked… people were indeed dancing, but it turned out that we were in a chapel. Those not dancing and singing were standing and clapping, so I did the same. Simplice had locked up the car and was with me – I think he feels that I need to be protected occasionally (in my wild forays!) and assumes that role when he considers it necessary, which is terribly nice of him. The evening carried on – basically, the celebration was a church service, and there were lots of songs of praise, and prayers, and the preacher preached. And yes, it was very much fire and brimstone, with lots of “intriguing” interpretations of a couple of sections of the Bible and lots of invectives against lying, thieving, fornicating, etc. Nothing bad in that, but it was amusing that during the preaching the local iniquitous bars were roaring out their music! The fun bit was that there was instant interpretation – obviously these churches take the bilingual nature of the country seriously and the preacher was a dab hand at keeping his utterances short enough that the interpreters could do their thing (there were two). I have to say they did a very good job of it, with some peculiar English (to be expected, like using “abide” and “dwell” which are words that we don’t use much in the sense of “living” in a place; obviously a biblical influence). There was only one spot where the interpreter made a monumental error, and it was such that I almost burst out laughing, which would have been a no-no. At one point the preacher said something about “il avait le coeur de pierre” and the interpreter rendered it as “Peter’s heart” when the context clearly referred to “heart of stone”. Needless to say, and this was stated a number of times during the preaching, women are the fount of all evil (he went on about women “having” too many men, never a word about a man and his many mistresses!) and, of course, at the end, informed everyone that to be allowed into the kingdom of heaven, one had to abandon all riches. At the end of the service, the preacher asked if anyone had been moved but no one put up their hand… Poor man, he tried so hard!

Other than the preacher, Jacques Jude also made a little speech, all about the choices he had made before his final conversion, and a couple of other people did so as well. Then the meal was served, and it was over, to my relief (the church benches were awfully hard on one’s now less padded seat). I was introduced to the mother, who speaks neither English nor French, which meant that I didn’t spend long with her, was introduced to a couple of other people, including the preacher, and Simplice and I then left. I got back home at about 9, so it wasn’t too long an evening.

So, there you have Jacque Jude’s 30th birthday celebration. On re-reading the above paragraphs, they sound as if I’m mocking the whole thing. I don’t think I am, though… I have no problems with people who have faith and who keep the faith, I guess I just have a hard time with the “begging” nature of that type of sect. You know, the Jerry Falwells of this world who amass huge riches at the expense of the poor. Here too, there is a lot of that, and it is known that many people ruin themselves by donating what they have to these churches and their pastors, who live very well.

Speaking of celebrations, I decided a while back that it was time to have a party at the house, and decided that I should hold a “welcome to Yaoundé” party for Njikam’s new wife. I invited a few people from my entourage who knew Njikam, and duly set about planning this party. I make it sound like it was a big deal, a mere fifteen people, but Judith certainly thought that this was a momentous occasion, and started planning a couple of weeks ahead of time. She was delighted, because it finally meant that I had to buy some extra plates, all matching, as well as a couple of serving platters and a few other bits and pieces that she’d been angling for. Poor woman, I think I give her cause for concern. She devised the menu, told me to stay out of the kitchen (this, I must admit, I found very difficult to do), and spent at least two days before the party cooking up a storm. My role, just like when I moved in here, was to sit in a corner and not do anything, except fork out money when necessary! She dragooned André and his wife into helping clean the house and with the cooking, and I was allowed to buy the drinks and put them in the fridge, which had a hard time keeping things cool (it’s dying, I’m quite sure). Such a flurry of activity had not been seen in this household since I moved in!

The party was held on Saturday, November 8, and during the day, Manga, one of my colleagues from the Centre (a carpenter, he built the mosquito netting frames for my windows) showed up with a sound system. Everyone knows that I don’t have a TV, or a CD player, or a DVD viewer, and Manga, as one of the guests, figured that I couldn’t have a party without music. The young man (he’s 26, I believe) set up the system in the living-room (where else), watched by his solemn 6-year old son, tested it and decided it would do. He left a pile of CDs too, and went off home to change. I’d invited everyone for 7 p.m., assuming that no one would show up until 8, but the first guests arrived “on time” at 7:15, much to their embarrassment (no one wants to be first!). By 8, everyone had arrived, Njikam resplendent in a suit, his very young wife (I don’t think she’s 18 yet) in a superb light green, gauzy outfit, and others in all kinds dress, from very casual to fairly stiff. Everyone sat around making polite conversation – the seating had been set up in African style, that is, all along the walls, so that no one faced anyone (but also no one has his/her back to anyone). Manga, who had elected himself DJ, chose some fairly light music while the meal was served. At the end of the meal, the table was cleared and moved out into the garage, and Manga announced that the dancing was now going to start, and the wedding couple had to start things. So he played a Nana Mouskouri song, and Njikam and Alima dutifully opened “the ball” – or should I say “set the ball rolling”? After the opener, the dancing became quite lively, with André proving to be quite the “rubber” dancer, and his son, Cyrille, aged 5, looks like he’ll follow his father’s dancing footsteps. The evening went well, I think – at least, I enjoyed it a lot, while marvelling at the volume of drink that these people put back. Not all alcoholic, just huge quantities of the stuff, as if it were necessary to empty all the cases of drink that I’d bought! Some extraordinary concoctions too – one chappie drank a mixture of red wine and Coca Cola… not sure if I’ll try that one! By 10:30, Njikam and his wife left, which was the signal for others to leave, and shortly after 11:15, the house was quiet again – a mess, but quiet!

And that, my friends, brings you up to date! Hope all is well with you and that winter hasn’t yet announced itself! Here too it is “cold” in the mornings…

Cheers!

David