Up to the Adamawa!

A few weeks ago my friends and I decided to take one final big trip around Cameroon. It is a bit too early for our last hurrah, but we want to see as much of the country (and our friends) as we can before we enter into our last three months in country, when travel is forbidden. So we decide to head to the Adamawa Region, the only part of the Grand North that we are still allowed to visit.

Although the Adamawa Region is adjacent to the Northwest Region, where I live, the best way to get there requires going back through Yaoundé (a seven-hour bus ride) and then taking an overnight train up to the regional capital of N’Gaoundere. I decide to break up the trip to Yaoundé by stopping in the small city of Bangangte, where my friend Ben lives, to spend some time with him before he leaves the country. As my friend Anna has described, Ben is a unique individual, and I’m going to miss him greatly. On this particular visit, one of our main activities is finding and carrying water back to his third-floor apartment. Most people would have seen this as a chore, but to Ben it is simply a creative way to get some exercise, and have some fun with his neighbors while we’re at it. We borrow a wheelbarrow from some amused children (or pikin, as the Anglophones call ‘em), ask a neighbor to let us use his tap, and begin the climb back up to Ben’s house. Along the way we entertain some of his Anglophone neighbors (those white men di carry wataa!!) make some friends at the bakery that offer us some gateau (cake), and endure the harsh stares and heckles from his evil landlady that hangs out just outside his door. Never a dull moment.

The next day I continue my journey to Yaoundé, stopping a few times to snag some pineapple and other snacks out the bus window. This level of convenience is something that I expect to miss greatly about Cameroon; I can’t remember ever being sold fresh fruit from the convenience of my seat back home. But everything else about those long hot bus rides? Those I think I’ll be happy to leave behind.

The overnight train between Yaoundé and N’Gaoundere is the only pleasant form of public transportation that I’ve experienced in Cameroon thus far. They even offer a sleeping car, which is the only option I’ve ever chosen. It is wildly expensive (25,000 CFA compared with 10,000 CFA for a second-class ticket), but makes the trip pleasant, as opposed to something to be endured. Our four-person car already has four people when my friend and I arrive; somehow a woman has convinced a hapless train conductor that her two elementary school-aged children are both less than four years old. If they’re willing to squeeze into their two beds I guess it’s fine by me!

We arrive in N’Gaoundere before I even wake up and exit the train to a slightly different world than the one we left last night. Although the station itself is bustling, the general attitude feels less rushed, less abrasive, and a bit calmer. Overall, the Grand North is much less developed than the rest of the country, but it also has a culture unlike that found down south. We hire a car to take us to Mbarang, my friends Hannah and Will’s village, and the entire transaction is completed without any screaming or fighting. It’s a bit disorienting.

As is typically the case in Cameroon, the drive is simply stunning.  We pass rolling green hills dotted with thatched-roof huts called “boukarous”. There are fewer banana trees than I’ve come to expect, and almost no small towns lining the road. We have arrived during the month of Ramadan, and our driver asks if he can stop the car to pray at the appropriate time. We agree, and he pulls into one of the towns and disappears into the mosque at the side of the road. So do many other men; we can see their shoes lined up just outside the doors.

            To reach my friends’ village we have to leave our car at the main road and continue by motorcycle. This section of the trip is close to an hour, but is equally beautiful. And experiencing it by bike is less comfortable but much more visually gripping. We pull up to the village and see Will walking down the main road. The driver continues along to Hannah’s house; it’s a small village and everyone knows where it is.

            Our time in Mbarang is tranquil and enlightening. The village is visibly split into Christian and Muslim quarters, and the development level of the different sides is informed by the occupations of its residents. Most of the local wealthy cattle herders are Muslim, whereas the poorer farmers tend to be Christian. Life in Mbarang slows down during Ramadan, but activity increases during the late afternoon in preparation for breaking the fast. The section of the main street near the market is taken up by people selling (primarily fried) foods, and we’re more than willing to give them all a try. A crowd favorite is “kosai”, which are small fried white bean patties. They were described to us as “pseudo chicken nuggets”, and then (upon further reflection) “pseudo vegetarian chicken nugget imitations”. Well, Chick’n Nuggets they are not, but they’re not bad at all. And at 10 CFA a pop (~$0.02) you can’t go too far wrong.

            Our time in Mbarang is over far too quickly, and it’s time to head back to N’Gaoundere. Although I live in another big regional capital, life in N’Gaoundere feels in many ways as new as it did in Mbarang. The taxis that I depend on in Bamenda are nowhere to be found, and public transport is limited to motorbikes. Instead of Pidgin English being shouted in the streets, a mix of French and Fulfulde are used at a much more manageable volume. We make a pilgrimage to the popular “kalichi” store that sells what appears to be a local version of beef jerky. Available in both pimente (spicy) and non-pimente versions!

            One day we take a car out to Tello Falls, a beautiful local waterfall. The drive is as beautiful as I’ve come to expect, and equally eventful. We only fishtail a few times as we slog our way through the mud, and accidentally find ourselves in the village of a fellow Volunteer. Her village is so remote that when we call to tell her that we’re nearby, she doesn’t even believe us. But it’s always great to see the villages and homes of our friends and get a glimpse into the little worlds that we build around ourselves.

            On the way back to Bamenda I stop for a few nights in Yaoundé. It’s that time of year again; a group of Volunteers is “gonging out” and heading back home, their services complete. These celebrations tend to be a bit bittersweet, as we want to celebrate the accomplishments of our friends but also accept that they’re going to be a bit harder to contact in the near future. This particular group arrived just before mine did; in many ways it feels like we’re in this together. We’ve had the longest to get to know them and went through the process of discovering Cameroon together. But as sad as I am to see them go, their departure really drives home the reality that we’re up next. Three months from now, we'll be the ones dressed in ridiculous traditional outfits and saying our final good-byes to Cameroon. I'll believe it when the time comes.