As I’m sure I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I’m incredibly
grateful for the wonderful cast of characters I’ve met since arriving in
Cameroon. A few of them have become what I hope will be lifelong friends, and
spending time with them always boosts my spirits. This past week was a
particularly wonderful one, filled with travel and visitors and some
rejuvenating friendship time.
One of the
many things I’ve learned over the past year and a half is that Cameroon isn’t
exactly bursting with “things to do”. I recently had a visitor that had
recently finished her Peace Corps service in Thailand, and she told me that not
once in her service did another PCV come visit her site. This isn’t to say that
she became a temporary hermit, but just that Thailand has so many interesting
places to visit that it felt silly to spend precious travel time sitting in
some random village. Instead, her and her friends would meet up at any of the
incredible places that fill the Lonely
Planet Thailand book. Just for comparison’s sake, there is no Lonely Planet
Cameroon. Cameroon has many positive attributes- it is beautiful, diverse, and
extremely affordable. But it is a far cry from being high on the list of
tourist destinations, and for good reason. There just aren’t that many “things
to do”, and where there are, they’re not that easily accessible.
But no
matter. We didn’t join the Peace Corps for a two-year tourist stint. But the
lack of activities means that when PCVs get together, it’s all about the
people. So when I hear that two of my best friends are taking something of a
Cameroon road trip (always a bold choice), I can’t wait for them to get to my
town. I put my projects on pause and commit a few solid days to friendship
time.
The first step
on their Northwest tour is my post in Bamenda. Everyone in my stage has been to
Bamenda at least once; it was the site for our check-in training after three
months at post. But that was over a year ago, as hard as it may be to believe.
My friend Hannah, one half of the traveling duo, lives way up in the Adamawa
and hadn’t been back since. One of my many theories about Bamenda is that while
it is an excellent place to live, it (like much of Cameroon) can be an uninspired
place to visit. So I decide to play to its strengths and take my friends to the
market. It turns out that among PCVs, lasagna is always a crowd pleaser.
The next
morning we hit Mendakwen’s (the name of my village) milk bar, which is a rather
unique find. Like I’ve said before, dairy is still catching on around here. After
a round of milk all around we head for the car park to catch a ride to Ndop, a
nearby town where my friend Clare lives.
This car
trip, while only an hour long, is the reason that I decided to write this blog
post. Somehow it seemed to perfectly encapsulate the spirit that is Peace Corps
Cameroon (at least to me). We arrive at the park and are immediately surrounded
by a pack of enthusiastic young men yelling potential destinations. These men
are known as loaders and are paid a small fee by the drivers for each passenger
they find. Because they are often in competition with each other, they tend to
be eager to please potential passengers and accommodate special requests.
Within reason, of course.
There are
four of us traveling, so we decide to take our chances on getting a small car
over the dreaded 20-person van. We’re the first four in the car, and these
small cars typically won’t leave without a full load of seven passengers. Yes,
that’s seven passengers plus the
driver. At this point Hannah has announced that she feels quite ill, and is
curled up in front of our future car. The trip is off to a great start.
I figure
that we have plenty of time to wait and go off in search of sustenance. Just
down the road is a woman selling plates of various Cameroonian dishes; I select
a combination of white beans and rice. My favorite. Feeling rather proud of
myself, I ask for an extra fork and head back to meet my friends, knowing that
at least a few of them are hungry as well.
But as soon
as I reach the car, I am informed that the remaining passengers have been found
and the car is ready to leave. Hungry as I am, I try to increase my eating
speed. But for once the boys of the car park seem to be on my team and laugh at
my haste. “Take your time”, they tell me, “the trip will wait”. In the
hyper-frantic car park this is a small blessing, and I try to enjoy it.
Unfortunately, I’ve realized that my meal (a bargain at 200 CFA/$0.35) is
practically drenched in palm oil, the Cameroonian culinary staple. Usually I
can stomach it, but today it has turned my innocent plate of white beans into
something that reminds me of gasoline. Or maybe that’s just the scenery-the car
park doubles as a gas station.
Either way
I decide to take a pass on the rest of my meal and carry it into the car with
me as we load up. I’m squeezed into the front passenger seat with Hannah, and
the driver offers Clare the dubious honor of “petit chauffer”, meaning she gets
to share his driver’s seat. Anna hops into the back with three new friends and
off we go. Conveniently, the mama that I bought the beans from is stationed en
route, and when we honk as we pass her setup she comes right to the car to take
the plate and hand me my change. Can’t get better service than that.
Traffic in
Bamenda town is pretty awful-picture American city traffic minus stoplights but
plus giant potholes. And add some wild motorcycle drivers for good measure.
It’s slow going and we all breathe a bit sigh of relief when we hit the city
limits. To add some attempt at road safety the local police have set up a
checkpoint where they are presumably monitoring the number of people in each
car. At eight passengers in a small sedan, there’s no way we’re going to pass
inspection.
But no
problem-our driver is a pro and has taken this route many times before. He
simply turns to Clare and me and asks us to get out and walk for a little bit.
But don’t worry, he assures us, he’ll pick us up on the other side.
So this is
exactly what we do. We walk past the police officers a few seconds after the
car passes with two of our (also white-skinned) friends inside. If the police
officers wouldn’t normally be suspicious, they certainly have reason to be now.
The officers give us a friendly heckle as we stroll past, but make no move to
detain either the car or us as we pass. It’s clear that everyone involved is
abundantly aware of our fraud, but it’s all in good fun. And maybe 50 meters
after the checkpoint the car stops as promised and waits for us to re-board. There’s
nothing like a little mid-journey stroll.
After this
small interruption, the journey continues smoothly. Hannah is growing more and
more ill, but that’s no real surprise-the curvy and bumpy roads leave all but
the strongest stomach struggling to stay down. We stop at another checkpoint
and are immediately faced with a myriad of smells and food products being
thrust through the windows. No, we’ll take a pass on your fermented cassava
stick for today. Thanks anyway.
The only
tempting option is the basket of mangoes that one woman pushes through the front
passenger window. But just as I’m about to commit to purchasing them, one of
our fellow passengers intervenes. Deborah is in the back next to Anna, and in
the 45 minutes that we have been traveling has already invited her to her nursery
school’s graduation. Deborah is from Ndop and speaks with authority on the
subject of roadside mango markets. So off we go, until 10 minutes later when we
reach the mango holy grail. No fewer than 15 women line the roadside, each one
behind an overflowing bucket of mangoes. We don’t even have to leave the car;
it’s all we can do to limit our selection to one saleswoman. After a brief team
discussion, we decide to get 800 CFA (~$1.50) worth. It’s a massive amount. So
many, in fact, that Anna runs out of room in her backpack and we have to
distribute some to our fellow passengers. Adding to the excitement is the new
knowledge that there are actually five different mango types. We inexperienced
Americans can’t really tell the difference, but every single Cameroon is able
to tell the difference with a quick glance. But no matter: they’re all
delicious and it’s all we can do to hold off eating them until we arrive.
Luckily,
the mango pit stop is quite close to our destination. We arrive and all nearly
tumble out of the car in a combination of carsickness, discomfort, and relief.
Taking a step away to catch my breath, I walk directly into the tailpipe of a
poorly placed motorcycle. Ouch. That’s going to leave a mark.
As
frustrating as Cameroon can be (and particularly travel in Cameroon), there’s
definitely a tempering effect that comes with traveling with understanding
friends. Sometimes you just need someone to look over and chuckle with when
that one obnoxious passenger seems to have decided to travel without her
identification card or sit with his legs splayed out wide. And sometimes your
friend just needs someone to tell the driver to pull over to accommodate her
carsickness. As the Francophones say, “on
est ensemble”.
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| I didn't end up with any of the pictures from our travels, but the recent rains have really helped neighborhood morale! |
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