The Ginger Travels

I recently spent a week touring several nearby cities.  It was nice to see friends, meet other volunteers, explore the country, and celebrate the holiday season, but now that I have returned to Bafang and laid down my bags, it definitely feels good to be home.  Here’s what happened:

Thursday the 26^th, the day after Christmas, I packed up, locked up, and picked up a car to Bafoussam.  Being white here has its drawbacks and its benefits.  One benefit is that every time I have gone to wait for a car, I get a seat in the first one, no matter how many other people are waiting.  I feel a little guilty taking advantage of this privilege, but I mean… what are you going to do.  The whole process of taking a car to Bafoussam is pretty different from anything I’ve done in America.  Rather than going to an agency, which can entail waiting for hours for the car to leave, we go to a certain point on the road and wait for cars to drive by.  Usually someone driving to Bafoussam will come by that point and fill up their car (four in the back, two in the passenger’s seat, and on special occasions, two in the driver’s seat), charging the same fee as the agencies ($2).  Other times, an agency bus that still has space will stop by on its way out of town.  The time I’ve spent standing and waiting on that corner has changed me.  For one thing, any time that a car with only one or two passengers drives by and doesn’t stop, I am filled with absolute loathing.  HOW SELFISH CAN YOU BE to waste all that perfectly good car space??  WE ARE WILLING TO GIVE YOU MONEY!  I think I’m going to have a panic attack when I return to the US and see everyone driving completely empty cars around town.  One time I actually yelled at a guy who loaded up his car with the same number of passengers as seatbelts, urging him to fit at least two more.  When the ratio of people owning cars:people wanting to travel is this low, desperation sets in.

And yet this time I almost turned down my seat in the car because the guy in the front seat was so obnoxious.  He yelled at me to sell him my motorcycle helmet.  When I told him it wasn’t for sale, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.  The one hour-some minute car ride was spent with me, squished between two burly Cameroonian men in the back seat, arms immobilized in T-Rex position, being yelled at by the guy from the front seat who kept insisting I sell him my helmet.  Finally, I explained that if I don’t wear it, I will get sent back to the US.  He nodded in understanding.  “Okay,” he said, “in that case, give me your number anyway.  I don’t care about the helmet, it’s you that I want.”  Super suave, dude.  Almost got me. 

The other best part of the car ride was when we pulled over just before a checkpoint so that two passengers could get out, get on a moto, and meet us on the other side of the checkpoint to avoid fees for over-packed cars.  It’s the closest I’ve seen to anyone obeying traffic laws.  Also in case you thought it was bad enough already, let me elaborate on the towns we pass through on our way.  The route is approximately Bafang, Banka, Bana, Bandja, Baham, Batie, Bamendjou, Bandjoun, Bafoussam.  I wasn’t kidding about the “ba” thing!  Other towns in the west (off the top of my head) include Bangam, Bangante, Babajou, Bamboe, Babone, Baleng, Bangang, Bassosia, Bansoa… You can’t make this stuff up, people.  Well actually, you can, pretty easily, if you just put any string of letters after “ba”.  But anyway.

When I arrived in Bafoussam I was expecting to have the Peace Corps office (and its unlimited free wifi) to myself for the night before heading to Foumban in the morning.  To my surprise and delight, however, Danielle and Allison, Westies from my stage, were also staying there and had supplies including wine and care package candy to share.  We stayed up absurdly late and had a lot of fun playing music and giggling.

The next morning we were off to Foumban for the West Christmas Celebration!  The drive there was lovely.  Foumban is on the other side of Bafoussam from Bafang, so it’s a pretty different landscape and climate.  On the drive, the view changed from mountain to savannah and the whole world started looking hotter and drier.  Other sights from the bus included the woman sitting next to me breastfeeding because that’s normal here.  I’ve seen breastfeeding on busses, during meetings, at restaurants, and sitting on the side of the road.  No shame, no cover.  Maybe Cameroonians really have a healthier view of natural bodily functions than we do in America.

Our Christmas party was tons of fun.  West attendance from our stage was again 100% (that’s, Allison, Becky, Cloud, Danielle, Lara, Lauren, Alec, and myself) plus Josh, the host, whom we all got to know when he trained us in Bafia, and Chris, another volunteer in the west.  There was homemade foleré wine, homemade pineapple wine, guacamole, real pizza, Christmas music, and some gift exchanges.  I ended up with a nice load including two bottles of pina  colada mix, a nice chocolate bar, a mix CD titled and themed “Sex and Candy” courtesy of Allison, a bag of unroasted Cameroonian fair trade coffee, and a set of three masks to begin my collection of African art.

The next morning after nursing headaches and cleaning messes, we split into groups for the day’s activities.  Some went back to Bafoussam and others explored the town while Josh, Alec, Becky and I went on a hike around a crater lake just outside of Foumban.  To get there we had to take a bus to a nearby town, Foumbot, and then arrange a deal with some moto guys to have them take us up toward the lake.  The deal we ended up negotiating involved them bringing us all the way up to the staircase leading to the lake, waiting there for us to do our hike and have our fun, and then taking us back to where we met them.  What I didn’t realize was that I was signing up for the craziest moto ride of my life.  Oh I’m sure they get a lot worse – I’ve heard stories from volunteers of what is to come – but in my town, the longest moto ride has been about five minutes, all on paved road.  This one was at least 30 minutes (maybe 45?), all off road to bypass the park guards who would have charged us an entrance fee.  The path was narrow and brush whipped against our bare legs, leaving scrapes and scratches behind.  The incline was steep; on two occasions we had to get off the moto and walk while he pushed it up too-steep patches with soft ground.  Our driver also wasn’t exactly sure where he was going and we made a couple of small detours before Josh pointed him in the right direction.  This was also when the presence of the signature dust of the dry season became evident.  Whether Bafang is less dusty because of its paved road or because of its slightly different climate, it certainly came as a surprise when I discovered I was covered in dirt from head to toe by the end of the ride.  In fact, during my entire week of traveling, my snot was consistently black from dust.  The cloud of dust we rode in made the moto ride only more exciting as I squinted and sputtered the whole way.  By the end, all kinds of muscles that I never knew I had were aching from maintaining balance the whole time.

Finally, we arrived at the staircase to the lake.  After climbing several hundred steps, we got to the crater lake.  It was beautiful!  I hadn’t understood why Josh said we wouldn’t be able to swim there, but as soon as I saw it, that became obvious.  The lake was in the middle of a sharp drop in the land – a crater with sides far too steep to climb.  In fact, there was a narrow ridge surrounding the lake with sharp inclines on either side of it.  And that was our hike.  Needless to say I was absolutely terrified the whole time, certain that one wrong step would send me sliding to my demise.  For one part of the climb, up to the apex of the ridge, the terrain was all little volcanic pebbles, almost like sand, which was very bad for traction but very good for getting stuck in my keens and causing intense pain.  I whined a lot and made my companions promise that, in the event of my death, they would pass on my love to my family and make sure I was buried in my moto helmet.  But basically it was a lot of fun with dramatic, interesting landscapes, some light sweating and heavy adrenaline.  Plus the moto guys decided to do the hike with us, which made it feel a lot less like hiring drivers and a lot more like renting friends.  After the hike, we all got a juice together.

The rest of the day was pretty chill – we met back up with Danielle and Allison and we all got a late lunch in town.  Then we hung out at Josh’s house for the rest of the night, chatting, laughing, being silly, and planning our future sitcom based on our lives.  Then we watched Braveheart, had a late night snack of breakfast tacos, and went to bed.

One of the things Foumban is known for is its artisan scene.  The next day we headed out to scope the artisanal market.  It was great because most of the stuff you find in village is tacky, plastic, and imported from China – definitely not the African art you’d expect.  I didn’t end up buying much because I was running low on money, and I hate negotiating prices.  In Bafang I rarely actually need to negotiate.  Most things, like food at the market, or dry goods such as matches or toilet paper, have set prices.  Clothing might require some negotiating, but not nearly as much as the art, which attracts wealthy tourists and people who don’t know the proper price, like me.  I look forward to going back there when I’m more ready to spend and start my art collection from that time I lived in Africa.  They also had some cool stuff that is definitely illegal to bring back to the US, like art made from chimpanzee skulls and a hollowed out elephant’s foot for use as a box.

After a couple of hours at the artisanal market, we thanked Josh, said goodbye to Foumban, and hopped on a bus to Bafoussam.  Danielle, Allison, and I, all of whom were planning to go to Bamenda the following day, decided to spend the night at Danielle’s house instead of the less-than-charming Peace Corps office.  We had another fun girls’ night of eating macaroni and cheese, listening to my new mix CD, and watching Atonement.  Oh and just a side note: When I first heard my house described, I felt guilty that it must be so huge compared to everyone else’s.  After seeing several other PCV houses now, I can safely say that it’s not.  It has many rooms (yes, having a workout room is absurd, I know.) but they aren’t all that big and overall my house might be on the smaller side compared to those I’ve seen.

The next morning, the three of us + Becky went to the wait on the roadside for a car to Bamenda.  In any spot where people are likely to be waiting, there are sure to be people selling things.  On this particular day, I saw the normal bananas and plaintain chips and what have you.  Then one kid came up and offered a pot of cooked food.  I couldn’t understand what he was saying it was, so I asked to see.  He tried again, in English.  “Bush cat.”  And indeed, under a sauce of tomatoes and veggies, I saw its little paws and knew that it really was cat.  I had heard that people eat cat (and sometimes dog) here but this was the first time it was actually offered to me.  It made me feel weird.  Danielle almost threw up.

To make up for that disturbing experience, we hit the jackpot of rides to Bamenda.  A nice guy with a big car pulled over after not too long and let us get in.  We told him how much we were willing to pay, but after loading up and taking our seats he informed us that actually, he’s just a nice guy, we don’t have to pay him.  Woohoo!  He spoke English and had air conditioning and took us all the way to the front door of the Peace Corps office in Bamenda, even when he admitted that it was out of his way.  He said that he lives part time in Germany and knows how much a stranger’s kindness can mean when you’re traveling.  Ah, the good people of the world!

            Once in Bamenda, we ate a delicious feast at Prescafe and then I waited in an impressive line at the bank to use the ATM.  While standing there, the ATM broke, was fixed, and broke again all while the line inched forward.  I finally gave up and vowed to return early the next day.  Apparently all government employees get paid through Bicec, my bank, in the last week of each month, and I came at the worst possible time.  Alas.  I don’t think I’ve ever waited an hour to use an ATM before so I can cross that off my bucket list.

            Becky and I went to TJ’s house in nearby Bali for the night.  It actually happens to be the exact same apartment I stayed at for site visit under its previous resident, Georgia, before she finished her service and went back to the US.  It was my first time seeing TJ since training and so it was great to catch up and hang out!  Our ride to his neck of the woods was thoroughly entertaining.  For one thing, there was construction on the road and traffic was completely stopped.  Becky and I looked at it with dread.  Luckily, the driver of our cab had a better idea.  He took some side streets, eventually descending what can only be described as a log flume, definitely not intended for use by motor vehicles, but he did so without injuring anyone or messing up the car.  When we got close to the end of this narrow “road”, we were forced to stop because another car, apparently attempting the same maneuver we were, was stuck in front of us.  The passengers of that car were all getting out to push.  Oh goodie.  Then all the passengers in our car got out too.  I thought maybe they were going to help, but they just walked further up the road as our driver, apparently newly mobile with his lightened load, squeezed the cab past the other car and onto an actual, paved road.  (The other car, after much squealing and skidding and burned rubber, eventually made it up too.)  After that, the ride was smooth sailing right up until the end, when I recognized TJ’s apartment and asked if we could get out.  Bamenda is an Anglophone city in an Anglophone region, and yet, I definitely think communication there is way more difficult than it is in Francophone.  After asking if we could be let out, the driver only acted confused.  I tried rephrasing it (as he steadily got further and further away from our destination) until finally someone else in the car interpreted into Cameroonian English “They want DROP!” Everyone in the car burst out laughing at how silly my attempt at speaking “English” was.  I swear, I am so funny in this country without even trying!

            When we woke up, it was New Years Eve!  Rather than confining the celebration to the few hours surrounding midnight, we had a full day of festivities, beginning with a barbeque at the case (I don’t know how to spell this word and come to think of it, I don’t know why they are called cases.  But I mean the Peace Corps office/transit house.) featuring delicious hamburgers and other tastes of home.  There were old friends from within and without my region, familiar faces who helped with training, and new people to meet, both volunteers and Cameroonians.  We played cornhole (TJ and I had an epic win of 27-20) and ate and drank and talked and used free wifi and generally had a jolly end to 2013.  Eventually we moved the party to a nearby hotel bar/club where we danced and tried to sing Aulde Lang Syne over the live band at midnight.  (Speaking of the live band, one of the highlights of the night was definitely when Travis (and later, Lee) somehow snuck into the band and played the bongos during their performance.  Lee boasted a blister the next day from how hard he bongoed.) 

            Lee and I were originally planning to head to a festival in Fundong after New Years, where we would meet Leonard and Carine in their village, but we pooped out and went back to Bafang early.  After spending New Year’s Day in Bamenda, which looked like a ghost town with empty streets and every shop closed, in honor of the holiday, we jumped on a bus back home, stopping briefly in Bafoussam to eat some of the best chicken I’ve had in my life.  I was glad to get back home, sleep in my own bed, get some alone time, water my herbs that I carelessly murdered by neglect, and regain access to regular showers.  That being said, it was a great trip and I had a wonderful time!

           

            A couple of days after getting back home, I went domestic and spent all day in the kitchen.  I made pickled beets for the first time ever!  On that subject, apparently the Bafang market has beets!  I also tried my hand at making the ubiquitous pimante sauce, which is incredibly spicy and more than I will ever be able to eat in the next two years.  For dinner, Lee and I planned a Mexican food feast!  We bought meat from the market (my first time doing so) and had it ground up.  (Also while at the market we encountered a guy selling puppies, which I found sorely tempting.  This time I mean alive, as pets, not to eat.)  We made tortillas from scratch (my first time doing so) and made guacamole, rice, and beans.  We used laughing cow as a hybrid cheese/sour cream substitute, a role it filled marvelously, and made up tacos with sautéed peppers and onions and all of the above.  Not to toot my own horn but basically we did an amazing job and it was so close to actually being back home and eating tex-mex.  I don’t think I’ve ever eaten four tacos in one sitting before so I can cross that off my bucket list, too.  It is comforting to realize how much American (or American-esque) food really is possible here, even if it takes more time, effort, or money to prepare it.  Oh my god I miss American food.

            Well overall, I am doing well here.  As time goes by I feel only happier.  I’ve gradually been liking Cameroon more and more, and liking Cameroonians more and more, and liking Cameroonian food less and less but that doesn’t really matter because I am falling in love with this country.  I survived the holiday season away from home and two years doesn’t sound like such a long time to me anymore.  It still doesn’t feel normal here – almost every day I have thoughts of all the ways it’s not like America – but it feels good.  And I feel good.  Happy New Year, everyone.