THE COUNTRY

Cameroon, a former German colony, named after the bountiful catches of prawns (camarones) found by the Portuguese in its waters, is located on the Central West Coast of Africa, east of Nigeria. It is about the size of Texas. There are many different ethnic groups and 250 lingual dialects. Four-fifths of the country is Francophone and one fifth Anglophone. Religions include Christianity, Islam, and Animism. It is governed by a corrupt dictator of the garden variety, Paul Biya, who is reputed to have had his first wife poisoned. We did not feel any hostility from anyone because we were American. If any foreign country dominates, it's France, the former colonial power. We did not get sick, nor did we get robbed. The security situation was fairly tight.

The first question people asked us when we mentioned that we were going to Cameroon for Christmas was, "why Cameroon?" This before they got the courage to admit that they didn't know where Cameroon was, exactly. [See map] Why? Well, the main reason was to visit our good friends Mindy and Ron (referred to as 'M&R'). R works for CIDA (Canadian International Development Assistance) in Cameroon. M heads up a Canadian embassy fund for micro-enterprise projects. Since they are scheduled to leave Cameroon September 2002, it was "now or never." We had to take advantage of their hospitality and see a country which is known as 'Little Africa', as it has a little, and a lot, of everything.

It was a three-week trip. Week one was spent driving around the NorthWest and SouthWest part of the country, and then across to the coastal town of Limbe. Week two was spent in the Extreme North of the country, with M&R. Week three was spent partly in the capital Yaounde (in the center of the country), partly in Kribi (South West) and ended at the Douala airport.

Thanks to M&R, we were able to rent a 4-wheel drive vehicle, complete with driver, from the Canadian Embassy fleet for the first week of touring around. Monsieur Andre expertly drove us around for a week and proved to be not only an excellent guide and driver but also a great dinner companion. He was in his fifties, the father of nine children and had one grandchild. He had salt and pepper hair, a mustache, and cat-like cheeks, with a smile that never ended. He was a very proud, somewhat stubborn, unfailingly polite, yet gregarious gentleman (in other words he had a lot in common with W. He spoke French so H acted as translator between the two men) and six local languages. He had been working for the Embassy for nearly 20 years and dreamed of visiting Canada for his retirement trip.

THE WEST

Day One of officially being tourists in Cameroon! We had rushed to Foumban in time for the end-of-Ramadan Eid-el-Fitr (Muslim feast which celebrates the end of one month of fasting) the night before. It was a treat to see all the citizens dressed in their colorful finery for the occasion. Added to the crowds in the streets were groups of boys on horses having ad hoc races. Though we stayed in a hotel a little out of town and therefore had a good night's sleep, Andre stayed in town and heard the partying and drumming that went on ALL night long. The next morning, after an unsuccessful search for breakfast (the town was very slow to wake up), we went to the Sultan's palace. It was very interesting architecturally, as it was modeled after a blend of German and Romanesque palaces - made of brick with many arches and levels. We were treated to the Sultan's court orchestra. A group of older men, dressed in robes, blowing horns and drumming, were encouraging the Sultan to emerge from his palace and hold court. We never actually saw him, but W noted several of his wives and daughters with intricately coifed hair in the courtyard, also waiting.

Later, the museum opened and we went in. Occupying the third floor of the palace, it had an excellent display of artifacts from a 500 year old royal dynasty, which included a king from the 1800s who was reputed to be more than seven feet tall (they had his crown and scepter and everything). There were spears, fetishes, thrones, masks, costumes, furniture, weapons, shields, swords, and robes, all having to do with this fourteen-generation dynasty. The guide had his French routine down pat, except he had no sympathy for the translator until the very end, when H could no longer absorb any more information. At one point he gave W a "war or peace?" spear distinction test, which W passed. At the end we got to view the hall of thrones from an internal balcony. The guide pointed out that the whole building was leaning, "like the leaning tower of Pisa," he said of this homemade brick architecture. Unlike most museum-experiences, this was a congruous collection of artifacts all in their place of origin.

There were weekly markets and festivals to be seen, but where and when exactly? A local Peace Corps Volunteer told us where to be on what day. So a few days later, we found ourselves in Bafut, a town in their final day of the biggest festival of the year. We arrived in the heat of the day at the village square, which was in front of the "Fon's" (the local king) palace. While milling around and people-watching, Andre suddenly left us to go say hello to someone. He came back to say that he had just run into his brother-in-law, who happened to be the Prefect (local government representative) of Bafut. This Prefect, a very gregarious gentleman dressed in an African style summer suit, was escorted by a policeman and they were making the dignitary rounds. Andre suggested we hang out with him.

Happy to have a cultural "in", we followed the Prefect and his entourage through the village and then into a café, where, in the shade, we sat on a bench behind some tables. From this unobtrusive spot, we watched all the dressed up people come and shake the Prefect's hand, and then our hands and then Andre's hand. The Prefect made gallant comments in English to the people of the community (he was not from that area and so that was their language of communication), spoke French to the policeman, and a local language to Andre, who had been his childhood neighbor. The whole meeting had been, it appeared, a happy coincidence. [Why Andre had not realized that his sister and her family lived in this town we never quite figured out.] We were served sodas and not required to do anything except shake hands and smile for the next hour, while soaking up the festive atmosphere. At 3 PM, the Prefect was summoned (and therefore, so were we) back to the square. The real festivities were about start and he was to sit next to the Fon.

The festivities began with a feather appointing ceremony. There was a line up of men who were awarded or commended by the Fon. A red feather in one's hat was a badge of honor and importance. [Those with many, many feathers, seemed to be members of the court]. The various clans, both men and women, were gathering in their groups and then they were cleared out from the village square. There were teenage boys on prancing horses going in and out, showing off in front of the Fon, seated on his throne. After some disorganization, the presentation of clans to the Fon began. One by one, the clans would dance up to the Fon, waving spears, rifles and sticks in mock aggression, singing to the drumbeat. When they reached the Fon, he stood up, shook his rifle at them in mock defiance (actually, he was laughing and looked like he felt silly). Then they would turn around and shoot the rifles in the air (Andre assured us there were no bullets, just gunpowder), making lots of noise. This ritual was repeated until all the clans had gone up to the Fon.

Then a group of women began a dancing circle. As more and more groups had pledged their allegiance to the Fon, they joined in the circle of dancers. The circle grew until it encompassed the whole village square. W escaped to the middle to take more pictures. H was hemmed in between the chairs and the dancers, feeling too oafish in her hiking boots to join in (though she was invited, in English, by the women). Eventually there was enough dust being kicked up by the dancers for us to choke and cry "uncle". We left the partiers to dance 'til dawn.

After our week tour of the NorthWest and SouthWest, Andre drove us to Limbe where we spent three days. Limbe is a coastal town not far from the port city (some say armpit) of Douala (main port and commercial city). It is also not far from an active volcano called Mount Cameroon. Andre, who had, until then, been a wonderful guide, all of the sudden became reluctant and stubborn. He didn't seem to want to take us anywhere, especially if it was on the road North towards the volcano. But since he wasn't telling us WHY he was reluctant, we had to figure it out through a couple of language and cross-cultural barriers. [Psychology helps in these instances.] The question W asked, "is Mt. Cameroon dangerous?" proved to be the watershed. We finally figured out that he was afraid of this active volcano (not an irrational fear) and that his fear came from watching TV. Evidently, when the volcano last erupted, the spewing lava fireballs and associated destruction were broadcast again and again on the local news. After this revelation, we let him do a U-turn. On the way back from our aborted trip North, Andre stopped at a makeshift roadside stand, and bought a piece of black lava from the 1999 lava flow, which cut across the road. We hid our smiles.

We stayed in the nicest hotel the city had to offer, with a beautiful view, including that of a rusty ferry wreck, of the sea. We visited the botanical gardens, the wildlife center, had a day at the beach and a jungle walk [We gave up trying to get Andre to go where he didn't want to go and instead went on a jungle hike South of Limbe.] We dined on grilled fish and plantains, crab, and shrimp. Here too, as in Bamenda, we ran into Peace Corps Volunteers and heard more war stories. W referred to the PCVs as "puppies" because they seemed so young.

Our only cross-cultural confrontation was while we were visiting a beach eleven miles from Limbe; it was called 'Eleven Mile Beach'. There was a military outpost in the area, which we were unaware of, in one direction. W was taking pictures and was stopped by a man who demanded his camera as payment for the offense. He was very angry and a shouting match ensued. Fortunately W was able to talk his way out of a nasty scene with some money, and, more importantly, the innovative line,"whatever makes you rich, handsome, and happy!" It was nice to swim in the 80 F degree ocean among the gentle swells. We had an even mellower beach experience in Kribi, during the last three days of our trip.

We said good-bye to Andre when he dropped us off at the Douala airport for our internal flight North on Cameroon Airways. We were anticipating all sorts of things to go wrong around this flight. However, other than a 2 and 1/2-hour delay and long waits in line in the wilting humidity, the flight took off and landed in Maroua without a hitch. The plane looked new and the flight personnel kept apologizing for the delay.

EXTREME NORTH

Christmas Day found us in the North, with friends M&R in the town of Maroua. Maroua was to the "extreme North" what Bamenda was to the West - a great launching pad for scenic and cultural destinations. We hooked up with a colleague of R's named Eugenie, a French-Canadian agriculturist who had her brother visiting her (his first time in the third world, so he had a major case of culture shock). She arranged for us all to drive to Rhumsiki, a Wild West canyon/valley about two hours away, for a hike. So we rose early on Christmas morning and piled into two jeeps and sped off on a dusty unpaved road. Two hours later, we landed at a nice rest house, arranged for a local guide, and set off with about ten local kids in tow on a hike down into the valley. The guide first took us to a wood carver's village, past buttes and then to a 'guard's hut' where a family was hanging out in the shade. He let us know that we were on, or very close to, the Nigerian border, and these people were guarding the border.

We then doubled back for the hot march up the hill. We had to share our water with the kids who had followed us because the sun was very intense. Up and up and up we went, dreaming about the cold sodas and lunch that could be awaiting us at the hotel. But the 'tour' was by no means complete. First we passed though an artisan village, with little shops. W bought a 'cache-sexe' - hard to describe, but kind of a gourd clay 'figleaf' with intricate beads, which a bride would wear in front of her virtue, bikini style. [Makes a colorful, if smelly, wall hanging.] Then we went through the guide's village and looked closely at the inside of the quaint circular huts, which we had seen only from the road. The functions of each hut in the steeply situated complex were explained. We noted that to get up and down and around the tiny precarious stone staircases between the huts, one would definitely have to be sober and agile. After resting in the shade and climbing some more, we finally did arrive at the hotel and ordered what they had: stringy chicken and spaghetti bolognaise. The cold passion fruit soda tasted divine. Our Christmas Day meal!

Waza National Park is Cameroon's answer to Kenya's Serengeti Plain, just with more vegetation. We had long dreamt of seeing wild elephants and giraffes, and maybe a lion or too at this, the safari section of our journey. So M&R and we again woke early and sped off in the four-wheel drive and managed to arrive at the park gates by 9:30 AM. We were required to hire a "guide" to escort us into the park. Supposedly this guide would help us find the animals in the 25,000 acre-spread. The guide, although he had twenty years of experience, was less than inspired, and perhaps tired. Also, it was not the high season to see animals. [The high season to see animals is in April, when it is hotter and drier then hell, and all the watering holes, save one, have dried up, forcing the animals to congregate in one spot.] In the winter, such as we were, there were many watering holes, and the animals, even herds of 200 elephants, had plenty of places to hide. So we didn't see A LOT, but it was great fun driving around, running into other jeeps and asking them if they had seen anything, and stopping for snacks. We did see a group of giraffes fairly early on, and got some pictures. We also saw groups of large nesting birds - Marabous (looked like Africa's version of a stork or crane).

At various watering holes, there were rusty, cast iron watchtowers, from which one was supposed to get a better lay of the land. Our guide, however, chose to climb nearby ridges to scout out the herds for us. He would disappear for about half an hour at a time. [We figured that he had gone to take power naps.] After six hours of elephant seeking, we succeeded in finding a small family of elephants: three adults with tusks, three calves and one in-between sized elephant hanging out together in the tall grasses. We approached, but not too closely, and watched them flap their ears and cast a weary eye our way.

As we were not too far from a watering hole, and it was not too long until sunset, we backed off and parked on the other side of the water to await the sunset-at-a-watering-hole scene. For an hour or more, the elephants zigzagged oh so cautiously. Clearly one of them was in charge, and that one was not giving the others the go-ahead. There were flocks of ducks on the water already and it was a beautiful and serene sight. As the sun set and the elephants hesitated to make the final descent into the water, our tired guide urged us in whispers to go, as the park was closing. We ignored him. The sun sank below the horizon and all of the sudden the ducks rose up together, circled the watering hole three times while screeching, and landed again. This was might or might not have been a cue for the elephants. Suddenly, they decisively marched around to the tree by the water, grouped themselves around the calves, and waded in, leaving the adolescent to guard the rear. They had a real splash party. It was a wonderful reward for our long day.

Having the impression that watering holes at sunrise would be even richer with animal sightings, we spent the night at the local hotel, rose early the next morning and were at the park gate by 6 AM. [As not all of us were morning people, this was quite a feat]. This time, we got another guide, one who had shown Winifred many a wild animal on another trip. We entered the park along with other tourists, passed them and started a long, fruitless search for animals. The guide at one point had us stop while he poked around. He said he thought he heard some lions. We heard what he heard. But then we drove far away from them (Why? We don't know, he just told us to), exited the park, sped down the highway, and then re-entered the park from a different point, where, instead of a dirt track, there was no track at all. Poor R ended up negotiating bumpy grassy tundra for about ten kilometers before we cried, "please, a road, any road!" Though the-eager-to-maintain-his-reputation-guide twice climbed to the top of tall trees to look for animals, we saw naught. By 11 AM, we were so happy to get the heck out of there and return to Maroua (via a very nice scenic route) Hey, animals do tend to want to hide. Sometimes, they even have the gall to leave the park boundaries all together, (e.g. we saw many large Patas monkeys running outside of the park).

THE NORTH TO THE CENTER

We decided to keep our friends M&R company while they drove back from the Extreme North to Yaounde instead of flying. After all, they had taken the jeep all the way up North just so we could toodle around on unpaved roads right? As the journey North had taken them three days, we budgeted three and a half to get back. The first night on this road trip we spent at a remote resort, run by a German ex-pat, which was situated on Lake Lagdo, which had been artificially created by the construction of a dam. We swam in the lake at night after a late arrival to loosen our stiff muscles. It looked a little less appetizing, though serene and picturesque, the next morning in the daylight.

The next night we spent at another remote-French-ex-pat-owned resort, outside of Ngoundere, called 'The Ranch', situated at an altitude. It was the only spot in Cameroon that we had to wear our sweatshirts. As the sole guests for that night, we were welcomed. We had a nice hike around a volcanic crater lake (we were advised not to swim in it as the former owner was reputed to have bred crocodiles in it for their hides) and through cattle pastures. The old brick house had beautiful carved wooden furniture from the by-gone colonial age. The place was a little run down, but still full of character, which made up for the ancient sagging beds. The dinner was excellently cooked, fresh-as-it-gets beef. We awoke with sore backs, and set off early for what was to be a twelve-hour journey–the home stretch.

The 'highway' was unpaved, though dry and even. [R said that it was way better to have a smooth unpaved road than it was to have a paved one full of unannounced potholes, which can break axles.] Making good time, we reached our intended destination by 1:30 PM, very early to be in a town with nothing interesting. Being only 100 miles away from Yaounde, and not really wanting to spend another night in a bad hotel bed, we decided to go for it, and push straight through. The highway became unpaved again and was made hazardous by the tree log truck traffic (indeed we saw a couple of overturned trucks and freed logs, not to mention other wrecks on the road as well). We were constantly coming across long rigs loaded with the carcasses of giant tree trunks, going about thirty miles an hour. Their weight kicked up a corresponding amount of red clay dust, reducing visibility to zero. The trucks HAD to be passed–this on a narrow road with little or no shoulder. Fortunately, we were aided in our endeavor by intermittent roadblocks and speed bumps. The trucks had to stop at checkpoints, whereas we, with the diplomatic license plates, only had to slow down. After ten heart-stopping-truck-passing episodes, we reached the paved highway outside Yaounde just before sunset. For another hour, all our brave hosts had to deal with was crazy traffic and darkness. Then we were safely back at M&R's home sweet home. After a quick Chinese meal, W and H stumbled into a real bed, while M&R took several more hours to unwind from the harrowing drive.

This was our first real foray into Africa. For W, since we were surrounded by international development people, it was also a first hand study of this world (the world, for better or for worse, H left behind). We tagged along on M's visits to various projects en route to the North and also to Kribi, another coastal resort town in the SouthWest. W saw examples of money well spent and not so well distributed. H listened with interest to the debates in French in which R engaged in about the meaning of 'development'. We came away thinking that there was much work to be done, but we were glad not to be doing it.

Our Comparative Analysis