I went to Cameroon!
In a nutshell, my time in Cameroon ranks up there with the trip to Cancun to see one of my sons get married. I am genuinely at peace with marrying my patootie. I now understand the gifting protocol and some of the things I once complained of or judged. The little I grasp of their system – a mixture of French and tribal – works where it is.
It is impossible not to address the poverty because it pervades Westerners' view of Africa. Although the images of poverty and filth we have all been raised on are factual, they need to be taken in an African context. In an American context, people who live like that also have high crime, to name only one problem. In fact, there is not much crime among the locals. Cameroon has at least 250 tribes and is typically peaceful. When you see the poverty in person, you realize that it is not necessarily crippling. There is little crime, as I mentioned, among regular folk. There is no anger on the streets. Women come and go as they please. Children are well behaved. It is true that Douala, in particular, is especially dirty because there is not regular trash pickup and, if there are any pollution laws, they cannot be enforced. Douala is dirty enough that I went to bed nauseated from breathing the air while we were driving around. However, the dirt is generally outside. With the exception of one or two vagrants, I did not see anyone who was dirty unless they were currently doing dirty work, such as the farmers still moving their merchandise into the market. The homes I went to, often unannounced, were swept clean. I did not see any unkempt children. They are well groomed and wear shoes. If you are standing among people - who do not often have deodorant and other western hygiene products - most will not smell at all, and those who do will smell just like anyone here who bathes daily but forgot to put on deodorant.
There is laundry hanging everywhere, even on guardrails next to the road. My first day, I had a typical western thought that "laundry is everywhere because the people have no machines." Within a day or two, I realized that, no, there was laundry everywhere because Africans are clean.
There is junk everywhere. However, after a day or two of acclimation, I realized that since Africans don't waste much, much of that junk was being used as bbq pits or other items that were useful to them. However, when you see photos of these things and only know what that signifies in America, it is difficult to understand that the problem not always what we think it is.I did not see any bugs, except a few flies. I wondered if maybe I was missing something, until I realized there were also few birds. The homes, which are generally made of cement, do not support mold, rodents or bugs.
The big markets are extremely dirty in appearance. However, I went there after being acclimated to Douala's dirt (Yaounde, the capital, is remarkably clean). Since I knew to expect trash ground into the soil, old wood and corrugated metal everywhere, the first thing I noticed about the big market was not its homeliness. The first thing I noticed was that . . . IT SMELLED GREAT! The fish counter smelled like only brine. Even the poultry area, despite poultry's fame for its stink, was ok until I got to within five feet or so of the coops. In the chicken area, fragrant wood was burned as incense. So, even at the large market, you either smell fresh merchandise, fragrant wood, the amazing spices, or NOTHING.
Most people in Douala do not have private vehicles. You will not see many, if any, buses. Few bikes. I saw no one riding any type of animal, such as a donkey, even though a cattle drive is not rare. Most will be on foot. Of those on foot, many still carry loads on their heads. Something like a shoe may stay put on a bare head; a tray of fruit or a sack of something will generally rest on a fabric collar that stabilizes the load. Women who do their marketing carry large bags. Although we see many handcarts for men carrying loads like firewood for sale, there are no grocery carts like the ones we see here among shoppers who do not have a car.They drive on the same side of the road that we do.There were many "motos" or "velos" (small motorcycles) in Douala, sometimes holding up to four people, including the occasional European. Traffic jams of hundreds of cars at intersections are common, and air pollution in the form of cars burning oil and the gritty exhaust of the motos is normal. There are few stop signs or lights, which are mostly ignored. Everyone has good brakes. Pedestrians generally remain exactly where they are when vehicles pass within less than a foot, because everyone is accustomed to cutting it very close. Lanes, which are generally not marked anyway, are for guidance only, as a third lane may be created based on need. This sounds like a joke, but ad hoc lanes may be necessary to avoid potholes or to accommodate a line of drivers who need to get around other obstacles.If you have the means, you can hire a cab. Since all cars are imported, automobile travel can be expensive. The taxis, which are yellow, are usually dented, many comically so. Inside, most will have an appearance of being regularly cleaned. Some will have a name or slogan painted on the rear window or bumper, although I do not know if the name, such as "Prudence" identifies the driver or the car itself, like naming a ship. Taxis can be hired by the timeframe, such as an hour or a half day, or you can share a ride with strangers. We generally hired our own cab at a cost of perhaps 5,000 CFA (central African francs, pronounced "SAYfas", which works out to maybe $5). The roads in Douala are not maintained. My patootie advised me that you cannot go around potholes, you can only choose the one that will damage your car the least. This is true. There are ridges and potholes a foot deep or more on most of the roads we crossed, including neighborhoods of the relatively well off. The small, unpaved roads going into Joe African's quarter are even difficult to negotiate by foot. I was there during the dry season, so I can only speculate that the wet season offers its own particular difficulty.
So, the first impression of an American riding in a cab in Douala may well be "what am I doing in this bomb?" By the second day, you develop a great deal of respect for the "taximan" who negotiates these roads with acute skill and the talented mechanics who keep the bombs running.
The Cameroonian version of Greyhound is the Guaranti. We had a great ride on a modern, air conditioned bus, to Yaounde. This was a three-hour ride each way and the round trip probably cost $50-$55 for two of us, so it was not cheap by Western standards. The riders appeared to be mostly business people. The Guaranti station we used had comfortable sofas and banks lining all the walls. Instead of a vending machine, there was a guy outside selling sardine and egg sandwiches on French bread, and the station set in a line of market tables where you can buy bottled water and sodas, phone cards, and other items typical of a market. Halfway between Douala and Yaounde, the bus will make a potty stop. You probably already know that there is no potty at the potty stop. Motorists also stop at one or two points where people are selling refreshments, which they hand up to you through the windows if your windows open. On the way back, the Guaranti itself offered a mildly sweet, heavy bread-cake and Fanta (orange soda) as part of its program.Although Africa is known for cpt rather than punctualness, the Guaranti generally runs on time.
To get from Baltimore to Douala, budget maybe 30 hours each way, including layovers. But first, a joke: Two pilots were in a lounge, talking about a colleague who had died in a plane crash. The first pilot asks, "Do you think he went to Heaven, or to Hell?" The second pilot responds, "Doesn't matter. Either way, he has to go through Atlanta."
I took Air France, a partner of Delta, from BWI to ATL, which takes about as much time as getting to OAK from SEA. After a layover of several hours, I took the transatlantic flight to CDG (Charles de Gaulle/Paris). This is where you stop hearing much English spoken, although everything you encounter will still be in accordance with your First World expectations, and probably slightly better. I mentioned before that the food was to die for. First, all of the food and drinks, including alcohol, are included. During the transoceanic flights, the food is of the quality the French are famous for. Breakfast might be pain au chocolat, a yogurt, fresh fruit, a cheese, bottled water and coffee, tea, juice. We had two transatlantic meals. During the five hours in the Paris airport, I ate more great food and did some souvenir shopping after passing through security. In order to shop or get some refreshments, I had to exchange a traveler's check at a Travelex so that I would have Euros. CDG is enormous - even with the airport train, you need to budget 40 minutes to get to your gate because the signs can be confusing even if, like me, you read enough French to take the most basic care of yourself. Paris and Douala are in the same time zone, so the 6-hour journey to Douala did not add to jet lag.
But this is where things get weird. Douala Airport (DLA) was a zoo. There was not the maintenance or the order we are accustomed to. That doesn't mean it was "every man for himself." Rather, the Camerounais are very polite and orderly in and of themselves. But it was a crush of fantastic proportions. One thing that worked well is that every airport I encountered more or less funnels international travelers toward baggage claim and Customs. My sweetie and our friend, "D.", also from Cameroon, prepared me that there would be young men who would insist on carrying my bags. D. gave me an idea of appropriate payment for them. I did not have the right currency but, in the airport, they will take Euros and dollars.Two young men swooped down on me and, since I was carrying an extra bag weighing over 60 pounds to give to D's mother in Douala, I was grateful for their help . . . until they demanded $50 to help me through Customs.
Quoi? I got my bitch on and told them that I was tired from my flight and had no patience for nonsense. I demanded that they hand my bags to the customs official and let him tell me whether I owed anything - I would pay them for carrying my bags, and that's all. I could speak to them at length because they were not about to leave - I was their opportunity and they weren't going anywhere. The chaos around the customs table was actually helpful because the customs official simply did not have enough hands to do everything he wanted to do (although he did open two of my three bags) and, unable to negotiate further or do anything else, the guys and I spilled through the airport's front doors a little like Jonah being hucked upon the beach.
After a minute or two, someone called "Pom?" and a cheerful face in front of me identified herself as my sweetie's sister. I chattered to the baggage guys that my people were here and somehow, her grown sons got my luggage away. I pressed $6 into the hands of the ringleader of the customs scam and thanked both men and I got away - to their consternation - but not before squeezing their hands and thanking them for their patience. All they could really say was "you're welcome, Madame."
They say you can't bullshit a bullshitter, but as much as I'd like to take credit for outwitting the scammers, I escaped the situation by a combination of chaos, their own deference to my age, and the quick and knowledgeable wits of my prospective sister-in-law's family. Speaking of which - two carloads of people were there to greet me! I would not walk alone, dine alone, or sleep alone during my entire stay. In fact, a couple of nights, we slept three to a bed because that's where there is to sleep, even in a Western-style hotel. And what about being there? You've doubtless seen either a bumper sticker on an old jalopy or a joke about such a car with the message "Get in, shut up, and hang on!" Once in Africa, that's how you deal. Get in, shut up, and hang on!
On the day of my return, the same chaos greeted me on my way into the airport. Two cars of people accompanied me to the front door - only this time, I knew them, I loved them, and I cried at having to leave them. Not much time to dry my tears - because of security, Monsieur A., a friend of the family, pushed me through a couple of doors after failing to charm his way in to accompany me. I was not able to turn back to thank everyone again. I went through my checkpoints and noted that I was required to pay an airport tax in order to leave. Good thing I had reconsidered emptying my pockets in the hotel. So, I had to line up behind others who did not appear locals and pay my last 10,000 CFA note - perhaps $25 - before I was allowed to complete my checkpoints.And the rest of the trip was the reverse of getting to Africa. I had heard that Air France uses its crappy planes for the Africa runs. While the food on the way from Douala to Paris had dried out a little, it was simply great French food that had dried out a little. I had no complaints whatsoever. To celebrate my successful journey, I actually drank the champagne and cognac on my return to the Occident!
I left my American things with my sister-in-law, my pantyhose and Neutrogena soap, a ruffled skirt and an unused water filter cup I thought I would need. (I did not visit any villages, and drank either hotel water or bottled water elsewhere.) This allowed me to bring home a load of African clothing, Cameroonian coffee and spices, merchandise from the French supermarket in Douala, called Casino, and souvenirs from the Paris airport, and even the glycerine soap "Joe Cameroon" buys from the open air market for next to nothing.
Souvenirs were difficult for me to find in the territory I covered. There is not enough tourism for the types of baubles we find in the First World. I wiped out the hotel's last 19 postcards, which cost a fortune. When we went to the Post Office, the clerk needed special permission to send the cards to the U.S. However, those postcards cost less than a quarter each to send and made it to their destinations!
Every time I travel, I unlearn many of the ideas that drive many Westerners. A lot of what we know or think we know simpy are not relevant that far outside America. I sincerely hope you enjoyed my impressions from the week I spent meeting my prospective inlaws. While there is not much to do that is Western - for example, I didn't see movie theaters, skating rinks, a McDonalds or dance club - I think every American should travel to the second or third world, if possible. When we see what others are happy with, our lives can improve immeasurably because a culture that does not have our material well being can show us what is really important. Now, contrary to what you may be expecting, I'm not going to be a dork and stop there, hoping you'll see my earnest expression and the mist in my eyes. Heck no. I say TAKE THAT CRUCIAL KNOWLEDGE and layer it on the material wealth we have here, and see what a swell life is possible when you got it going on inside as well as out.
