General: Cameroon

Five go mad in Muakwe.

Five of us (plus Sylvester, our driver) are crammed into a 4x4. We'd set off from Douala at 10 o' clock that morning (10 o' clock "African time" meaning that it was actually about half past before we were on the road). Driving through Douala is one of those occasions when you want to look where you're going, but have to do it through your hands in front of your eyes due to the driving habits of the ...
...if one side of the road is potholed (as is invariably the case) then it's a game of chicken between cars travelling in opposite directions. There are no traffic lights - everyone just barges through junctions beeping their horns madly. Before we can leave Douala itself we have to make a diversion for refuelling as well as an extended stop while our driver buys a "new" (new to his vehicle, at least) tyre. The negotiations surrounding this ... more

Five go mad in Muakwe.

Five of us (plus Sylvester, our driver) are crammed into a 4x4. We'd set off from Douala at 10 o' clock that morning (10 o' clock "African time" meaning that it was actually about half past before we were on the road). Driving through Douala is one of those occasions when you want to look where you're going, but have to do it through your hands in front of your eyes due to the driving habits of the local population. Cars, in theory, drive on the right, but if one side of the road is potholed (as is invariably the case) then it's a game of chicken between cars travelling in opposite directions. There are no traffic lights - everyone just barges through junctions beeping their horns madly. Before we can leave Douala itself we have to make a diversion for refuelling as well as an extended stop while our driver buys a "new" (new to his vehicle, at least) tyre. The negotiations surrounding this purchase take just under an hour, and we are surprised to see the new tyre being stored in the boot rather than replacing the particularly bald one on the rear wheel. ("Bald" being a relative term out here - it seems that tyres are only replaced when they have no rubber left whatsoever.) The cracked and potholed road runs out at the large town of Mélong. Our stoicism had run out several miles previously, when we'd had to make a stop for a late lunch and loo break. From Mélong onwards (a distance of about 30 miles) the road is a dirt track.

"Inkala, Inkala!" [Bakossi: "white man"] children shout excitedly from the roadside as we pass. Some, more bold than others, run towards the car with demands of "Cadeau, cadeau!" [French: "gift"] or "Give to me something!" The state of the road necessitates our very slow pace; the rainy season is only just ending and much of the dirt track consists of churned up mud. Five white faces give us our celebrity status - this is not an area much visited by tourists or foreigners. Vehicles are few and far between even in the dry season, so we are bound to attract a great deal of attention. On three occasions we grind to a complete halt in the mud; the Toyota totally unable to move. Fortunately on each occasion we are able to find enough locals to come and dig us out of the mud (for a small fee, naturally). At one point the Toyota's radiator threatens to explode, resulting in another unscheduled stop. A group of local women pass by, carrying the unfeasibly heavy baskets of firewood that are a common sight over here; one woman is so distracted that she slips over in the mud and drops the entire basketful. She blushes and giggles with embarrassment as we help her to pick up the wood and continue on her journey. Just before 7 o' clock in the evening we reach the welcome sight of the bar at the end of Muakwe village - the incongruously named Sawa Palace - where some warm beers and an even warmer welcome are waiting for us.

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So - who were "we" and what were we doing in Cameroon?

Our group consisted of me and four work colleagues from my school in Bristol. [For the purposes of this review I have changed their names and called them Peter, Steven, Lucy and Gina.] We were in Cameroon to visit our link school; Government Practising School (G.P.S.) Muakwe. Muakwe village is in the Bangem district of Kupe Muanenguba division of South-West Province in the Republic of Cameroon. The link was set up by one of our teachers approximately three years ago when he visited the area, on the suggestion of a friend of his who had visited previously. He stayed, along with his wife, for several months in the village and taught in one of the classes. Our expenses were partly British government funded, through the Teachers' International Professional Development Programme. [I don't intend to elaborate on this here; if anyone wishes to know more, please ask via my guestbook.] Staff at our school in Bristol have been paying into an account for the last couple of years to fund projects at Muakwe school. This was our opportunity to check on developments, take out resources and begin new projects. We spent most of our days in the village (limited unfortunately to ten, not nearly long enough) in and around the school, returning to our hotel in the nearby town of Bangem at night.

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Muakwe. It's a small but very typical village, like so many other villages in Cameroon, and indeed throughout Africa. There's a main "road" down through the village (I doubt whether any motorised vehicle has ever made it to the bottom of the village, and if so, probably not back again); houses made from wooden planks and corrugated iron roofs, and a standpipe courtesy of Water Aid. Livestock; goats, pigs and chickens run freely through the village - these are truly free-range animals. There is a traditional communal cooking house in the middle of the village; the walls are lined with firewood. Traditionally, women who are menstruating are not expected to do any heavy carrying, so may take their firewood from the cooking house. "So how does it get re-filled with firewood?" I ask. "Ah. Any woman who insults her husband publicly must fill one wall with wood" I am told. Hmmmm; if I lived here, I'd be doing little else. Everyone shakes our hands; we are repeatedly told "You are welcome". We move slowly through the village, as people come out of their houses to see us and talk to us. Our group leader has been here before; questions are exchanged about the well-being of various family members on both sides. This is occasionally a cause for sadness and reflection, as is the case when Peter finds out that one of the pupils he taught previously died recently of malaria. Children flock around us, and our cameras become a great focus of attention: "Snap me, snap me". Photographs become prized possessions here; it's usual on entering anyone's house to be presented with a photograph album or to be asked to look at photographs displayed on the wall. The idea of natural photography is unfamiliar, however. Children who previously have been laughing and joking instantly adopt serious poses when a camera is pointed in their direction. Over the course of our time in Muakwe we are invited into the homes of various villagers. Despite houses looking very similar outwardly, interiors can differ. A family doing reasonably well financially (in relative terms) have two sofas, beds in two separate rooms, curtains and mesh at the windows (none of the buildings have glass windows). A widow living alone has two upright chairs and an upturned box covered by a cloth serving as a table. For our visit she borrows chairs from a neighbour, along with plates for the food she has cooked. We eat, as with all our hosts, a wonderful meal. She realises as we eat that she has not borrowed any cups. We share water from a chipped enamel mug. At the end of the meal, with a proud smile, she reveals her pièce de resistance, taking out five bottles of beer from a bag previously concealed under her chair. These have cost her 2000 francs (approx £2), probably more money than she would normally spend in a week. We drink, sharing some with her and she toasts our health and thanks God for bringing us to Muakwe.

This is one of many excellent meals that we eat. We are introduced to unfamiliar dishes; ndolé, which is a paste made of spiced spinach and peanuts and served with meat, fish or vegetables; fish soup, spicy and rich and usually served with rice or plantain; a stew of cocoa palm leaves and other vegetables, sometimes including small pieces of meat; a bean dish with plenty of chilli. We eat as guests of local people most often, sometimes taking meals at our hotel. We eat supper one night at a local café - we have the house speciality, the spaghetti omelette. It costs 25p for the basic dish, but we decide to throw caution to the wind and go for the two-egg version for 35p. It's delicious - subsequent attempts to recreate it in England are unsuccessful. The rainy season is ending and many fruits and vegetables are ripe and ready. We eat freshly cut pineapples, bananas ripened on the tree (which taste quite different from the ones at home, which have been cut down while green, in preparation for the long travelling time), papaya and avocados as big as melons. Most days we are presented with some kind of fruit or vegetable by the villagers, either grown on the village farm or picked from the bush.
In the town (Bangem), snacks are sold by street vendors; fruit, and cooked items such as puff-puff (rather like a non-sugary doughnut), a spicy kind of scotch egg and fufu sticks - the "fast food" of Cameroon, made of cassava wrapped in leaves. It's very popular amongst the locals, but we agree that it's probably an acquired taste, being very chewy and rather indigestible.

The scenery around Muakwe is stunning. The area is mountainous and at this time of year very green. From the school grounds we can look up in all directions towards the mountains, often shrouded in mist. The flora and fauna are fascinating to us. On our morning walks to the village we see banana and plantain trees, papaya ripening and coffee bushes, with the beans beginning to turn from green to red. I make a mental note to myself to bring a book about local plants if I return. We see giant millipedes, lizards, mice, and once, a cane rat, about the size of a large cat. Cane rats are caught and eaten over here; to my knowledge I never tasted any, but we were sometimes unsure what some of the ingredients in our food might have been. Bright yellow birds dart between the trees; some of the trees are full of their round nests. The only snake we encounter is already dead, caught and killed by one of the townspeople. I have a gecko living in my hotel room, which is extremely efficient in eating any flies or mosquitoes that venture in.
It rains often. Every evening there is thunder and lightning, which provides a spectacular display against the surrounding darkness. I experience darkness as never before; we walk back from the village at night and I insist on switching off the torches at regular intervals to see the fireflies dancing around us and to look up at the myriad stars overhead.

This is not a tourist area. White people are few and far between. As such, we are very conspicuous. It is impossible to blend into the background and be an observer. We are celebrities in the town and village; our every action is known by all around: "You visited the delegation yesterday, how was your visit?" "You are going into Muakwe for the celebrations." Wherever we go, people approach us to shake our hands. People stare and point and children come running. I cause the town to come to a standstill one afternoon when I decide to accompany some of the village children delivering firewood. I hoick a basket onto my back, pull the strap over my forehead, and trudge through the town centre. It's a great joke; everyone finds it very amusing that I'm carrying a traditional basket, and people stop me constantly to congratulate me on my strength (regardless of the fact that I am accompanied by girls, some of whom are less than ten years old, all carrying similar weights) The girls themselves are very solicitous and ask me constantly whether I am managing - "Look, here is grass. You will be ok to go on grass?" "May I help you to cross this trench?" They enjoy being the centre of attention, and when the wood is delivered, they rush to hold my hands to walk through the market place together. The market does not hold many wonders; it's mainly fruit and vegetables - people selling off the excess they have grown. A man squats next to a jumble of second-hand clothes. There is a flip-flop stall; on closer inspection I realise that these too are second-hand.

Near the town are the twin volcanic lakes of Muanenguba. They are situated about 6 miles away, and the water of each is a different colour; one green and one dark blue. They are known locally as the male and female lakes. The female lake is suitable for swimming, whereas the male lake has sharply sloping sides making access to the water difficult. There are various local tales about their origins, but no two locals seem able to agree on a definitive version. We trek up to the lakes on the Saturday. The road is exposed, without any shade at all and the entire journey is uphill. I have a hat, sunglasses and plenty of water, but after two hours (the whole ascent takes four) I am finding it difficult to breathe and feel as though I am about to explode. "You've gone an awfully funny colour" says Lucy. By now I can't see straight, but have just enough common sense left to realise that I am in the early stages of heatstroke. I turn around and start back alone towards the village, feeling like an abject failure and blaming my Celtic roots. I eventually arrive back at the hotel and George, the manager, takes a quick look at me, starts up the ceiling fan and brings me a drink. I sit and sip it slowly, then go to my room to lie down for an hour. Soon I'm feeling more normal and can begin to get the episode into perspective, while feeling slightly concerned as to whether the other four have made it safely and without incident. They do, and I have to settle for looking at their photos and hearing their account of how different the landscape is; apparently there is a large volcanic crater (a little like a small-scale Ngorongoro) which is a plain and is in stark contrast to the dense vegetation elsewhere.

We have several good nights out. Perhaps the most memorable is our trip to the Jupiter night club. Nico and George (hotel staff) accompany us, ostensibly for our safety, but also in the knowledge that they'll be bought a few beers. The music, as everywhere, is very loud, and the club is filled with people of all ages, from small children to old men. We ask where the loos are. Nico just gestures to the front door - there isn't one, so we use a grass verge nearby. We dance a lot; an old man with rheumy eyes and a porkpie hat asks me to dance, and I oblige. He watches me for a few minutes, then mutters: "You don't dance like an African" and spits on the floor. I'm too polite to say "Guess why not?" Lots of people ask us to dance. It seems to be common for people of the same sex to ask each other to dance. Steve starts doing some odd dances, and most of the men begin to copy him, probably assuming that this is the European way of dancing. I dance several dances with Carlos. He decides he is going to marry me. I raise several objections, such as the fact that he's twelve years younger than me, not to mention that I'm already married. I've heard that it's considered bad form here for a man to marry an older woman, and that men who do so get teased with "You married your mother". I mention this, but Carlos claims he will have no problem with this. "I am young. I will have plenty of energy for you. Fate has brought us here tonight. It is meant to be." His hands again begin to wander, but he accepts in good humour my re-positioning of his arms. Sadly, I have to leave Carlos as it's getting very late and we have a trip to church planned in the morning. In the morning I spot Carlos waiting outside the church and for a split second I panic that I may have agreed to marry him after all. He smiles and shakes my hand warmly but I seem to have escaped without a marriage certificate.
We have a riotous night at Emmanuel's bar. Despite the fact that he's Muslim and it's Ramadan, Emanuel gets very drunk with us. It's not a difficult task with beer costing only the equivalent of 50p for a bottle containing approximately a pint. "Before you people came I was smooooth. Now I am rrrrrrrrough!" becomes his catchphrase and he and Steve roar helplessly with laughter every time he says it. We stumble home in the dark, most of us fall over at some point on the rutted and uneven road, and Lucy manages to fall into a trench in spectacular fashion. We feel totally safe walking home; anyone we meet wishes us a good evening and many offer to accompany us to ensure our safety. Next morning we realise that I have left my sunglasses and Peter has left his hat at Emmanuel's bar. Nursing our hangovers, we make our way back there. Emanuel is in his dressing gown. We worry that he has overslept because of us and hasn't been able to open his shop (the bar is attached to a general store), but he tells us that he's just returned from a two-hour run to clear his head. He has the hat and sunglasses safely tucked away behind the counter, and tells us that he was about to send one of his children to our hotel with them. We are well aware that if we had left anything in a bar in the U.K. we would be very unlikely to see it again.

Our days are spent in the village at the school. I am promoting literacy and have brought lots of picture books and other reading materials (the majority of my baggage allowance is taken up with books and I have stuffed as many as I can into everyone else's luggage.) Literacy levels are generally poor. This is an English speaking part of Cameroon (80% is French speaking) and lessons are delivered in English. Many of the younger pupils have never held a book and need to learn how to use it and turn the pages. Most of the children have experienced little more than an area of ten square miles during their lives and have no access to television, films or even pictures, with the result that their vocabulary and concepts are limited. My colleagues have other projects to carry out; I sympathise with Steve and Lucy, teaching tag rugby in the heat. The pupils are full of energy and welcome the change of sport. Generally in Cameroonian schools there is only football for the boys and handball for the girls.
The children are gorgeous; they all wear blue school uniform, most items of which have seen many previous owners, yet are clean. I decide that Jennifer is coming home with me; she has such a cheeky grin and I love the way her nose wrinkles up when she giggles. Steve feels the same way and we embark on a pointless argument about how we would manage custody arrangements back in Bristol as though it might be a reality.

At the end of our ten days in Muakwe we treat ourselves to a night at a beach hotel on the coast just outside Limbe. It's very beautiful, but we are unlucky with the weather and it rains the entire time we are there. We swim in the sea anyway. Three of us take a walk on the beach in the evening, and can't resist stripping off and wading in. It's like a warm bath, and as we move in the water, there are tiny phosphorescent specks that shine like sparkles of glitter. We visit the site of Mount Cameroon's most recent eruption (2000) and walk on the solidified lava. Our time in Cameroon is drawing to a close. We all express a desire to return in the future.

Probably my favourite experience is one which occurs in the village. On one very special afternoon there is a meeting for the whole village to attend, to discuss the link between our school and Muakwe. It's a serious affair, and I am in charge of minute taking. I struggle to make sense of the strong accents but do my best to note everyone's opinions and comments. Following the meeting there is a village ceremony which is quite magical. The men are made village chiefs and have to take part in a ritual involving drinking palm wine from a calabash (gourd). They are presented with the calabash as a symbol of their new status. Peter, who has been here before, is promoted to the position of general and is presented with the traditional bag carried by local chiefs. The women are made honorary women of Muakwe village and we are given baskets and straps. We process together from the centre of the village into the school fields with the women singing, clapping and ululating and we feel very honoured. We are fed and given beer and palm wine to drink. We have arranged a treat for the villagers and have a drink for each of them (about 150 or so). Some of the village girls have been to the town to buy crates of beer and soft drinks. They have then walked the mile back to the village, each carrying a crate on their head containing twelve bottles. I have no idea how they have managed this, but they just smile and say "We are used to it".
The women dance and sing to drum accompaniment and Gina, Lucy and I are summoned to join in. The women are very amused at our attempts to copy their dancing style. They are able to shake their shoulders and hips independently while simultaneously moving their feet (Beyoncé would struggle). I do my best, but my hips seem to have been built to a different design specification. Dusk begins to fall, and I am suddenly struck by the otherness of the experience; I am in a field in an African village, dancing with local people. I feel a sense of being a long way from my home, but at the same time a sense of being very connected to the planet, and totally at home.

Skimmers: It's hot. It's a long way away.

Thanks for reading.

k8 2006

 

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