"You want the tickets for 30mil right?" says the woman behind the grate at the ticket booth. I glanced at the book of 1mil tickets in front of her. "Don't you have anything inbetween" I ask, trying to ignore the the crowd of idle youth behind us, insisting in their most piercing "white-man's" voice that we buy their tickets for the essential services as bodyguards they are providing without solicitiation. "Fine" she sighs I also have seating options for 10mil and 5mil. After a moments deliberation we decided 5mil tickets should give us decent seats in a somewhat subdued section of the stadium for the ensuing Cameroon versus Gabn WorldCup qualifying match.

Cameroon had just defeated Gabon in a game in Libreville the previous saturday. A match we followed with bated breath as it was the same week as a contentious presidential election which resulted in Ali Bongo, son of the late president taking over where his father, Omar Bongo left off. The way politics seem to swing in this part of the world, it was predictable enought, but nevertheless a good excuse to incite chaos in the aftermath. The match, however, was allowed to proceed without major incident.

The Wednesday game was scheduled to take place at 3:30, we headed to the Omnisport stadium, just a few blocks from the PC transit house in our most patriotic apparel.

Upon arriving our group was split between those who shelled out 10mil and those who thought 5mil tickets were expensive enough. The first group breezed up a freshly laid gravel path with little to no heckling.

I joined the group that pushed its way through a swarming crowd and splashed through a soup of soggy, red mud muddles left over from the mid-afternoon's shower. In line I was called "WHAT", threatened to punch someone for touching me and scowled at a gendarme who laughed at my friend for getting her ass grabbed.

Once inside the stadium gates , we seemed to have entered the general seeting venue and ran from section to section trying to locate the elusive Tribune B.

Finally we were directed back towards the presidential tribune, but once there denied access by a stringent plain-clothesed man, who finally agreed to lead us to our mysterious tribune.

By this time it had started to rain and a well dressed man in slippery dress shoes insisted that I hold his hand as we ran around the stadium in a wildgoose hunt.

We finally found the upper access locked and in front of the lower access a swarming mob of purported ticketholders. A line of security guards and gendarmes with riot sticks pused back the crowd with a rusty cage barrier. We were left with no alternative but to plung through the mob and push our way towards the front. By this time I had lost track of my Cameroonian friend, but it was the least of my concerns as I had to keep from getting pickpocketed, dodge riot sticks and push my way through a throng of equally inspired fans.

Emerging through the narrow canal, firmly wedged between the gatand the mob, felt a bit like being reborn, with gendarmes at the other end calmy advising me to walk through.

Upon breaching the other side, we quickly found seats under a leaky cover. Having doubted our decision to save 5mil, we used my binos to located our elite counterparts and were filled with schadenfreude to see them standing, uncovered in the intermittent sun and rain.

Once the game started, Cameroon was clearly more in control of the ball. They dominated and only let down their gaurd in the last five minutes of the game, when the crowd was already filing out of the stadium to allow Gabon one goal.

The final score was 2-1 and with only one game left against Togo, it was pretty clear that the Lions are headed to South Africa this summer.

What do tropical rainforest, Lady Ponce and broken derailers have in common? The 2009 Environmental Education Bike Tour in the South Region of course! If you haven’t yet, now is the time to congratulate the 12 successful participants of 191 km, from Ebolowa to Kribi.

The EE members conceived the project as a way to raise awareness in the South Region of the awesomeness of their natural surroundings. Eight agroforestry and three health volunteers and one staff member, Donald Wirsey, participated in the actual execution of the trip, though many more were involved in planning.

To prepare, Kate Legner, and Megan Conway, proud citizens of the route, worked tirelessly to set up morning programs in primary schools of the five target villages.

The additional volunteers, hailing from the Northwest, West, Littoral and Center Provinces, met in Yaoundé Sunday, May 10th, before heading down to Ebolowa together in a van overflowing with trees, market bags of school supplies and yes, bicycles. Along the ride from Yaoundé to Ebolowa, we remarked upon the absence of farms and the richness of the thickly forested landscape, and with it the enveloping breath of sweltering humidity. We enjoyed our first meal together at a local restaurant in Ebolowa, the delicious traditional dish Sanga, while being serenaded by the erratic beats of the South’s own Lady Ponce.

The next day was spent not cycling, but in the classroom for our first day of environmental fun. After preliminary introductions, by the ever professional, Megan Conway, Nura Suleiman proceeded to explain the theme of the tour, “What is a Rainforest.”

We were surprised to find that most of the students, aside from some geniuses in Kribi, didn’t realize that they were indeed located within a living breathing rainforest.Caitlin Scholl and Ben Wixson broke out the world map and made sure the students understood where rainforests are found and led a song to help the class remember all the continents—even Antarctica and Australia. David Hanson, Danny Quinn and Abby Hyduke explained the different levels of a food chain and enhanced comprehension through a predator prey tag game. David Hanson was repeatedly tagged and devoured by ten year old girl predators when he participated. Megan Conway was tagged by the director of the primary school in Bipendi. Jessica Colopy, Emily Haines, and Nura Suleiman led a sobering game highlighting the competition for natural resources amongst animals with increased human encroachment on dwindling habitat. Seth Shapiro, Megan and Kate held integral roles in keeping time, efficiently guiding groups between work stations, and keeping our bikes safe during recess time.

The second portion of the program focused on the effect humans have on rainforests. Danny Quinn arranged a trash sorting contest and explained to students the value of compost; Caitlin tirelessly demonstrated the importance of keeping our water sources clean; Emily emphasised the concept of recycling and showed the classes one more way we can reuse plastic bags by braiding them into multipurpose jump ropes.

The program culminated with a reflective activity, in which the students foliated a paper tree with ideas of how they could continue to protect the environment in their daily lives, followed by the presentation of a bag of school supplies, generously donated at the urging of Jessica Colopy’s mom, and several trees to be planted for shade and beautification at a later date.

In the afternoon we introduced ourselves and our mission to the Clubs UNESCO and Amies de Nature at the bilingual secondary school and helped them create an action plan for the following school year, as well as create goals for their own bright futures. As the first day of teaching went off as smoothly as we could have hoped for, we took it as an omen for good things to come.

The second day was devoted entirely tobiking the longest stretch of the trip, 72km from Ebolowa to Lolodorf. We had hired a vehicle to transport supplies and Donald, David and Caitlin had done quick checks on all our bikes the preceding evening. We were invincible as we rolled towards Lolodorf, turning off the paved road onto a decent dirt road. Unfortunately our bikes were not, as the condition of the road degraded, and mud created from the previous evenings shower clogged our gears and derailers, mocked the efforts of our aspiring brakes, and coated our wheels to the point of eliminating their traction. By 9am, the first of us were arriving at the 30km mark, followed intermittently by disgruntled cyclists and broken bikes. A good three hours was spent removing mud from delicate mechanisations and preliminary reparations by our saviour, Donald Wirsey. Everyone agreed that the second half of the ride was much more agreeable, but we rode into Lolodorf much later than anticipated and exhausted. Donald sedulously worked on the bikes the entirety of the next day and was joined by Caitlin and David after a smooth morning program.

The 17km bike ride to Ngouvayang the fourth day of the trip was a breeze at a consistent decline through patches of thick forest, past sleepy villages. Ngouvayang was my personal favourite stop of the trip. We stayed at a guest house located at the Catholic Mission Hospital, powered by solar panels and overlooking the breathtaking Ngouvayang Mountains. There was a boarding school on the hospital campus for the children of the forest dwelling “pygmy” tribes who graciously performed traditional dances and songs for the volunteers after the morning program.

The 33km ride to Bipendi was equally effortless and we set up for the night at another private boarding house, before heading to the school and being surprised atthe record turnout for a Saturday program. In the afternoon we split into two groups. One group took care of creating a priority needs list at the Lycée and the other group decided to incorporate the boarding school into our program. While the volunteers demonstrated proper techniques for planting a tree next to the preschool, the kids demonstrated the proper way to throw a spear at a rolling ball. Shown up by children, the volunteers broke out a Frisbee and educated the population on proper disc throwing techniques. Bipendi might just be the hottest little corner of the South province, so we headed out as early as possible to complete our final leg of the tour.

Giddy, with the taste of victory in our mouths, the purported 68 km to Kribi left us undaunted, despite what I would personally consider more hills than it should take to get to sea level and we all arrived, more or less in one piece, before noon.

The final day’s program was greatly assisted by the collaborating Ministry of Forestry and unfortunately abbreviated by the school’s preparation for the 20th May. We were unanimously impressed with the level of enthusiasm and engagement from the students at both the elementary and secondary schools and agreed that Kribi is not a bad place to culminate a triumphant, yet physically demanding week of work. Though I personally vowed to never ride a bike again several times throughout the trip, I have since had a potentially misguided change of heart.

In total, we can estimate that 300 students from Ebolowa to Kribi were able to participate in our interactive program and directly benefit from the increased knowledge of their unique ecosystem. Over 200 secondary school students participated in afternoon programs and were exposed to community needs and priority ranking techniques, drawn from PACA resources. Teachers and directors of participating schools were presented with resources in the form of school supplies and manuals of potential EE activities, not to mention the numerous conversations with people who were curious as to the meaning behind our travelling spectacle along the way.

If before traveling to the furthest corner of Cameroon’s East Province, into the notorious Congo basin, or what remains of Africa’s largest contiguous rainforest, I had any doubts regarding the existence of wildlife in this country, it was all challenged by a two day trip through Lobéké National Park.

But that epiphany does not come about so easily, because the complications of arriving in this pocket of wilderness were an adventure in themselves. It took a total of four days from my post to get to Sarah and Matt Kuhn, the remotest volunteers of the corps. It all started with the familiar trip to Yaoundé from Nkongsamba, seated in the back right-hand corner of a Tala Voyage cruiser, staring at the backs of thirty odd co-travelers, we grew quite close as is the norm during the seven hour ride. When, finally rolling into Yaoundé at dusk, emerging from the dark tract of Center Province, I saw for the first time the glow of the capital city, miles from arrival and wondered what, in a country largely lacking electricity, its inhabitants would say to the dilemma of light pollution. It seems silly from this perspective and patronizing when people are still illuminating the night with kerosene lamps.

In Yaoundé, I met up with my three traveling companions and we set out early the next day to catch a bus at the Mvan car park to Batouri. Our sunrise arrival was only rewarded by excessive heckling as our bus finally pulled out at 9am. The road was smoothly paved until Ayos, but soon turned to graded, red dirt much to the demise of the overloaded logging trucks, taking us past the birthplace of Chantal Biya, Dimako, before arriving in the regional capitol or Bertoua. Unaware that we were still a solid five hours from the night’s destination of Batouri, we ate grilled Tilapia and baton de manioc, remarked upon the dominance of Fulbé in the area and wondered about agricultural means, as farms did not predominate or even dot the forested landscape. We finally left Bertoua and arrived in Batouri after dusk.

The next two days of travel consisted of the tragic comedy of prison bus travel. From Batouri to Youkadouma, we managed easily enough, coming close enough to straddle the border of the Central African Republic near the appetizing, yet misleading settlement of Gari-Gumbo and passing more hides of hanging bushmeat and regimes of plantains than houses. Despite our swift afternoon arrival in Youkadouma, we were told we would have to wait until the next day for a morning departure to our final destination of Mambélé.

As the boldest lettered ville south of Batouri on the map, we expected to find more of a functioning hub for all the radiating villages, but as we went to the market to find some produce for our imminent hosts in Youkadouma, but in reality our options were slim, consisting of tasteless Roma tomatoes, shriveled onions, and a pithy head of cabbage, three times the price of a similar vegetable in my area. The boutiques were not much more compelling, the largest owned by a Mauritanian man in the center of town boasted some candy with Arabic writing, but otherwise only provided tomato sauce, sardines and the omnipresent cookie selection. I couldn’t help but wondering, with the lack of farm and resources, what do people eat down here?

We spent the night at a nice and cheap hotel, L’éléphant, with signs in German and extremely honest employees. The only other guests were two South Africans and their Cameroonian counterparts, feigning to work for MTN. We wistfully asked if they were going our way, hoping to get a ride in a private car, and were disappointed to hear they were heading back to Bertoua the next morning.

The sky popped in the night and the rainforests best quality created a muddy river in place of the road to Mambélé. We arrived at Alliance Voyage before 7am, despite the likely delay. Once there, we were told the driver for the south route was still sleeping and couldn’t be disturbed. We were not allowed to buy tickets. This was a bad sign. We started looking for private cars, but only found an envoy headed the opposite direction. By 9am, we decided to camp out in front of the empty logging trucks, headed south. In the worst case scenario we could split our group of four between two trucks and at least make it part of the way down. The loggers stalled, with the intention of letting the road dry a bit before undertaking a treacherous journey.

Finally we bought tickets on a prison bus that would get us ¾ of the way and crossed our fingers that hitchhiking would be a breeze from there.

Cramped inside the fire hazard of a prison bus, we jolted to a sputtering start. The first mudpit came not 20kms from leaving Youkadouma. We waited, ominously as a precariously tilted logging truck deepened the ruts with its wildly, inefficiently spinning tires. Our own conquest of the pit looked gloomy. All passengers unloaded for the first failed attempt. A subsequent trial was lanced through the adjacent driveway with no luck. An able bodied troupe of men watched in amusement, waiting for a monetary offer before offering their services. I suspected at one point that they had built the pit themselves as an income generating ingenuity. A gracious logger offered to pull us through, but our bus was attached to his rig, not with a sturdy iron chain, but a wound canvas cord. The crowd clucked in disapproval as the cord simply fell off after the first attempt. During this 45 minute debacle, we were surprised to see none other than the South Africans pull up to the growing line of vehicles waiting for their respective turns to cross the puddle. “I thought you were going to Bertoua” I confronted their driver as they approached us with their hands full of snacks and soda. He mumbled something about heading firstly to a village well on our way, before returning to Bertoua. “You guys are riding in that” stumbled the South African in his nominal English as we glowered at the empty back of their pickup. “Yeah” we coolly remarked and proudly climbed back into our prison bus as we finally broached the opposite side of the pit.

We caught site of the small pick up one more time at another backed up mud pit. This was after having completely loaded and unloaded at least three more times in order to enable the bus to cross precarious stretches of road. And it was upon stewing over their complete lack of graciousness, that we came to the realization there really was no reseau this far south and hardly a big enough population to necessitate white technicians flown in from South Africa. Furthermore, their pick up bore none of the flashy MTN logos and the realization that they were up to business much more nefarious than cell phone reception kept us preoccupied through several more stretches of impassibility. Once we were in Mambélé we were informed they were not after primate hands or elephant tusks, but old fashioned diamond hunters, completely ignorant of protocols and human decency.

The final breakdown of our bus happened less than halfway to our ¾ destination. We unloaded and watched passengers disappear into the few surrounding houses. A woman profited off our sour luck and sold half a small ungulate in bush meat. We stared vainly into the distance where one boy had taken off on foot to search the missing and necessary piece in the next closest town.

A half full SUV drove by and despite his protests, we fanangled an air conditioned ride with him, his lady friend and a large mamie and her pee stained chilled.

This time the road was smooth and we made it all the way to Mambélé by 4pm. Traveling twice the distance of the morning’s unfortunate ride in ¼ the time. The South African’s pick up passed us going in the opposite direction. We could only assume their truck was full of illicit items.

The SUV left us at the center of the village, about 1km from Matt and Sarah’s residence. We were thus escorted by a WWF car and deposited in the compound, a well manicured unit of three buildings, some recuperating grey parrots, burgeoning guava and avocados and a borderline of forest rustling with mixed troupes of small monkeys.

We spent one day relaxing and exploring the immediate vicinity. On the walk from their house to town, we were saluted by families of grey cheeked mangebeys and red tailed monkeys.

We decided to spend two nights in Lobéké National Park and headed out late morning with 2 porters, 1 guide and the necessities. The road leading into the park, Matt told us, had been recently widened and had created a more accessible entry point into the diminishing Congo Basin. Logging in the park is illegal, but the road cuts through the park into less restricted forests and is essentially enabling deforestation. We passed some temporary Baka settlements, mound shaped structures thrown together with sapling frames and banana leaf rainguard. The park is also restricted to indigenous hunters, but transition towards agriculture, along with the scarcity of game in huntable areas has been difficult. Poaching by Bakas and others is common and with trickle down corruption being the norm, the fight for conservation seems futile.

The Kuhns told us they sometimes can see gorillas crossing the recently developed road, and pointed out gaping trails made by troops of forest elephants.

The car abruptly turned into a similar path and we unloaded about 2km from the road. Crossing a small river with our bare feet, we changed into socks and sturdy shoes before following our guide, Awuma, silently into the forest.

Along the way Awuma pointed out various significant trees and was excellent in identifying groups of passing grey Mangabeys, putty nosed and black and white colobus monkeys in the canopies. One thing that made our wildlife sighting more accessible was the openness of the forest. Opposed to Korup, an old and subsequently dark rainforest with a thick canopy, Lobeke was more recently logged, creating a sparser canopy to allow greater viewing potential up top and thick growth at the eye level.

Despite the thick grasses, we were still able to catch site of a few fleeing duikers, a porcupine retreating into a hollowed log and gawky flocks of guinea fowl. The trail was pockmarked with forest elephant tracks and piles of fertile droppings. Awuma showed us signs of their foraging as well as uncalculated snackings of a gorilla upon soft stems, strewn haphazardly along the trail.

In the distance, we heard one gorilla cry. After we trodded along, we realized the cries were getting closer and we stealthily crouched to wait for a surprise encounter, as the screams and agitated huffs of the great ape grew louder and lesser primates shrieked in response. Twigs cracked, leaves rustled but visibility was low due to the thick undergrowth. We held our breath as he continued to approach when finally within 15meters, he let out one final scream and changed directions into the forest. Our only conclusion being that he smelt us over his own offensive musk. Exhilarated by the proximity of this encounter, we hiked on optimistic of more sightings ahead.

Before finally setting up camp, we passed by a large marshy clearing to scan for elephants and flocks of grey parrots. Two African Jacanas skulked inside the knee high grass, but elephants were only evident by piles of dung and muddy tracks, drying in the open sun.

We dismantled some perching sticks, put out to bait and net trap grey parrots, a Class A endangered species, considered a nuisance where it is abundant because of its propensity for cash crops of oil palm nuts and corn, numbers of this charismatic bird are actually declining. The African grey parrot is famous for its ability to mimic speech and additionally coveted by a covert traditional medicinal practice, involving their disembodied heads. Their scarlet red tail feathers are also coveted as traditional status symbols. Sometimes poachers will have a few bait birds, with clipped wings to attract the flocks with their enticing whistles. As some birds land on the strategically placed roosts, others will descend to the ground in search of grass seeds, at which point a net is thrown over them, capturing the unsuspecting flock.

After setting up a primitive camp, we hiked down to a viewing post and watched the sunset as flocks of green pigeons and grey parrots intermixed. A lone buffalo grazed near the forest edge and a sitatunga crossed into the clearing to drink from a waterhole alongside hammerknops, hadada ibis, and a pair of Hartlaub’s ducks.

The next morning we watched fish eagles and African palm nut vultures profit off the weakest ranks amongst the grandiose feeding flocks of green pigeons. Watching them scatter after a predatorial advance reminded me to Leopold’s reference to the now extinct passenger pigeons blotting out the sun with the multitidiousness of their flocks.

We hiked back towards the entrance for our last night in the park, encountering much less wildlife than in our way in. After setting up camp, we headed towards the nearby mirador. I stopped to ease myself as the others went ahead. Arriving, at the lookout less than three minutes behind, I had missed the sighting of three gorillas, two adults and one juvenile. I stared fixedly in the tall grasses, willing a gorilla apparition to manifest, to no avail. I spent the rest of the afternoon sulking and reading the Golden Compass series in the corner of the lookout.

The gorillas did not reappear, but all throughout the evening and into the night, we were serenaded by their vocalizations, along with the maniacal screams of our closer relative; the chimpanzee.

An early morning rush to the lookout followed by a restless night in the noisy forest left me with the impending feeling of failure as I halfheartedly mounted the lookout stairs and gazed into the clearing to find it empty. Accepting defeat, I slouched down to finish the Subtle Sword when Matt and Dave directed our view towards the west edge of the clearing. One black face was visible as the powerful primate cautiously chewed on the succulent stems of grasses and reeds at his disposition. Little by little he inched into the clearing, exposing his great silverback to our collective delight. As he approached a sandpit for a mouthful, a brilliant blue Turaco alighted upon an adjacent branch and a troop of Colobus monkeys scaled a more perpendicular tree.

We were not sure if he would eventually lead more gorillas into the clearing after firstly testing the safety of the site. However, we were not disappointed when he finally left alone, as he had given us over 30minutes to observe his stature. Satisfied with the solidity of seeing a wild gorilla, but also disturbed at how vulnerable the great ape would have been in the case of poachers, we headed down to camp to enjoy a cup of Nescafe before hiking out of the park.

We arrived back at the Kuhn’s by early afternoon and spent the rest of the day reveling in our good fortune and calming inevitable post envy. We were fortunate enough to catch a ride in a WWF car on the way back up to Youkadouma but took a breakdown prone prison bus the rest of the way to Batouri, where we celebrated with the local volunteer in his local night club.

The next day was on the relatively comfortable Orient Express back to Yaounde. At the station, we noticed someone had a grey parrot in a makeshift cage ready to travel to Bertoua. Feeling slightly inspired after our journey with WWF volunteers, we felt it our responsibility to vindicate the bird, but were less successful convincing our Cameroonian co-voyagers of the soundness of our argument.

Upon finally identifying the “villain”, a catholic school teacher, I asked her if she didn’t know it was illegal to keep the bird. “Not for me” she assured me, “maybe for you, my old students here gave me ten as a present, I sold the others, this one I am going to keep as my pet.” “It’s only illegal to take them far away” I was informed. I sighed and noticed the cage had collapsed and that the bird was silent but alive upon arrival in Bertoua five hours later. We watched helplessly as no one seemed to give much notice as it began screeching and whistling again as it was taken down from the hood and transferred to a taxi, presumably to the residence of a catholic school teacher to live out the rest of its lonely life in a cage. I felt like maybe there was something more we could have done, but decided in the end the notorious Cameroonian phrase, on va faire comment? Or what are you going to do, summed up the situation quite nicely. And really what was I to do? Some mentalities are awful hard to change. If before traveling to the furthest corner of Cameroon’s East Province, into the notorious Congo basin, or what remains of Africa’s largest contiguous rainforest, I had any doubts regarding the existence of wildlife in this country, it was all challenged by a two day trip through Lobéké National Park.

But that epiphany does not come about so easily, because the complications of arriving in this pocket of wilderness were an adventure in themselves. It took a total of four days from my post to get to Sarah and Matt Kuhn, the remotest volunteers of the corps. It all started with the familiar trip to Yaoundé from Nkongsamba, seated in the back right-hand corner of a Tala Voyage cruiser, staring at the backs of thirty odd co-travelers, we grew quite close as is the norm during the seven hour ride. When, finally rolling into Yaoundé at dusk, emerging from the dark tract of Center Province, I saw for the first time the glow of the capital city, miles from arrival and wondered what, in a country largely lacking electricity, its inhabitants would say to the dilemma of light pollution. It seems silly from this perspective and patronizing when people are still illuminating the night with kerosene lamps.

In Yaoundé, I met up with my three traveling companions and we set out early the next day to catch a bus at the Mvan car park to Batouri. Our sunrise arrival was only rewarded by excessive heckling as our bus finally pulled out at 9am. The road was smoothly paved until Ayos, but soon turned to graded, red dirt much to the demise of the overloaded logging trucks, taking us past the birthplace of Chantal Biya, Dimako, before arriving in the regional capitol or Bertoua. Unaware that we were still a solid five hours from the night’s destination of Batouri, we ate grilled Tilapia and baton de manioc, remarked upon the dominance of Fulbé in the area and wondered about agricultural means, as farms did not predominate or even dot the forested landscape. We finally left Bertoua and arrived in Batouri after dusk.

The next two days of travel consisted of the tragic comedy of prison bus travel. From Batouri to Youkadouma, we managed easily enough, coming close enough to straddle the border of the Central African Republic near the appetizing, yet misleading settlement of Gari-Gumbo and passing more hides of hanging bushmeat and regimes of plantains than houses. Despite our swift afternoon arrival in Youkadouma, we were told we would have to wait until the next day for a morning departure to our final destination of Mambélé.

As the boldest lettered ville south of Batouri on the map, we expected to find more of a functioning hub for all the radiating villages, but as we went to the market to find some produce for our imminent hosts in Youkadouma, but in reality our options were slim, consisting of tasteless Roma tomatoes, shriveled onions, and a pithy head of cabbage, three times the price of a similar vegetable in my area. The boutiques were not much more compelling, the largest owned by a Mauritanian man in the center of town boasted some candy with Arabic writing, but otherwise only provided tomato sauce, sardines and the omnipresent cookie selection. I couldn’t help but wondering, with the lack of farm and resources, what do people eat down here?

We spent the night at a nice and cheap hotel, L’éléphant, with signs in German and extremely honest employees. The only other guests were two South Africans and their Cameroonian counterparts, feigning to work for MTN. We wistfully asked if they were going our way, hoping to get a ride in a private car, and were disappointed to hear they were heading back to Bertoua the next morning.

The sky popped in the night and the rainforests best quality created a muddy river in place of the road to Mambélé. We arrived at Alliance Voyage before 7am, despite the likely delay. Once there, we were told the driver for the south route was still sleeping and couldn’t be disturbed. We were not allowed to buy tickets. This was a bad sign. We started looking for private cars, but only found an envoy headed the opposite direction. By 9am, we decided to camp out in front of the empty logging trucks, headed south. In the worst case scenario we could split our group of four between two trucks and at least make it part of the way down. The loggers stalled, with the intention of letting the road dry a bit before undertaking a treacherous journey.

Finally we bought tickets on a prison bus that would get us ¾ of the way and crossed our fingers that hitchhiking would be a breeze from there.

Cramped inside the fire hazard of a prison bus, we jolted to a sputtering start. The first mudpit came not 20kms from leaving Youkadouma. We waited, ominously as a precariously tilted logging truck deepened the ruts with its wildly, inefficiently spinning tires. Our own conquest of the pit looked gloomy. All passengers unloaded for the first failed attempt. A subsequent trial was lanced through the adjacent driveway with no luck. An able bodied troupe of men watched in amusement, waiting for a monetary offer before offering their services. I suspected at one point that they had built the pit themselves as an income generating ingenuity. A gracious logger offered to pull us through, but our bus was attached to his rig, not with a sturdy iron chain, but a wound canvas cord. The crowd clucked in disapproval as the cord simply fell off after the first attempt. During this 45 minute debacle, we were surprised to see none other than the South Africans pull up to the growing line of vehicles waiting for their respective turns to cross the puddle. “I thought you were going to Bertoua” I confronted their driver as they approached us with their hands full of snacks and soda. He mumbled something about heading firstly to a village well on our way, before returning to Bertoua. “You guys are riding in that” stumbled the South African in his nominal English as we glowered at the empty back of their pickup. “Yeah” we coolly remarked and proudly climbed back into our prison bus as we finally broached the opposite side of the pit.

We caught site of the small pick up one more time at another backed up mud pit. This was after having completely loaded and unloaded at least three more times in order to enable the bus to cross precarious stretches of road. And it was upon stewing over their complete lack of graciousness, that we came to the realization there really was no reseau this far south and hardly a big enough population to necessitate white technicians flown in from South Africa. Furthermore, their pick up bore none of the flashy MTN logos and the realization that they were up to business much more nefarious than cell phone reception kept us preoccupied through several more stretches of impassibility. Once we were in Mambélé we were informed they were not after primate hands or elephant tusks, but old fashioned diamond hunters, completely ignorant of protocols and human decency.

The final breakdown of our bus happened less than halfway to our ¾ destination. We unloaded and watched passengers disappear into the few surrounding houses. A woman profited off our sour luck and sold half a small ungulate in bush meat. We stared vainly into the distance where one boy had taken off on foot to search the missing and necessary piece in the next closest town.

A half full SUV drove by and despite his protests, we fanangled an air conditioned ride with him, his lady friend and a large mamie and her pee stained chilled.

This time the road was smooth and we made it all the way to Mambélé by 4pm. Traveling twice the distance of the morning’s unfortunate ride in ¼ the time. The South African’s pick up passed us going in the opposite direction. We could only assume their truck was full of illicit items.

The SUV left us at the center of the village, about 1km from Matt and Sarah’s residence. We were thus escorted by a WWF car and deposited in the compound, a well manicured unit of three buildings, some recuperating grey parrots, burgeoning guava and avocados and a borderline of forest rustling with mixed troupes of small monkeys.

We spent one day relaxing and exploring the immediate vicinity. On the walk from their house to town, we were saluted by families of grey cheeked mangebeys and red tailed monkeys.

We decided to spend two nights in Lobéké National Park and headed out late morning with 2 porters, 1 guide and the necessities. The road leading into the park, Matt told us, had been recently widened and had created a more accessible entry point into the diminishing Congo Basin. Logging in the park is illegal, but the road cuts through the park into less restricted forests and is essentially enabling deforestation. We passed some temporary Baka settlements, mound shaped structures thrown together with sapling frames and banana leaf rainguard. The park is also restricted to indigenous hunters, but transition towards agriculture, along with the scarcity of game in huntable areas has been difficult. Poaching by Bakas and others is common and with trickle down corruption being the norm, the fight for conservation seems futile.

The Kuhns told us they sometimes can see gorillas crossing the recently developed road, and pointed out gaping trails made by troops of forest elephants.

The car abruptly turned into a similar path and we unloaded about 2km from the road. Crossing a small river with our bare feet, we changed into socks and sturdy shoes before following our guide, Awuma, silently into the forest.

Along the way Awuma pointed out various significant trees and was excellent in identifying groups of passing grey Mangabeys, putty nosed and black and white colobus monkeys in the canopies. One thing that made our wildlife sighting more accessible was the openness of the forest. Opposed to Korup, an old and subsequently dark rainforest with a thick canopy, Lobeke was more recently logged, creating a sparser canopy to allow greater viewing potential up top and thick growth at the eye level.

Despite the thick grasses, we were still able to catch site of a few fleeing duikers, a porcupine retreating into a hollowed log and gawky flocks of guinea fowl. The trail was pockmarked with forest elephant tracks and piles of fertile droppings. Awuma showed us signs of their foraging as well as uncalculated snackings of a gorilla upon soft stems, strewn haphazardly along the trail.

In the distance, we heard one gorilla cry. After we trodded along, we realized the cries were getting closer and we stealthily crouched to wait for a surprise encounter, as the screams and agitated huffs of the great ape grew louder and lesser primates shrieked in response. Twigs cracked, leaves rustled but visibility was low due to the thick undergrowth. We held our breath as he continued to approach when finally within 15meters, he let out one final scream and changed directions into the forest. Our only conclusion being that he smelt us over his own offensive musk. Exhilarated by the proximity of this encounter, we hiked on optimistic of more sightings ahead.

Before finally setting up camp, we passed by a large marshy clearing to scan for elephants and flocks of grey parrots. Two African Jacanas skulked inside the knee high grass, but elephants were only evident by piles of dung and muddy tracks, drying in the open sun.

We dismantled some perching sticks, put out to bait and net trap grey parrots, a Class A endangered species, considered a nuisance where it is abundant because of its propensity for cash crops of oil palm nuts and corn, numbers of this charismatic bird are actually declining. The African grey parrot is famous for its ability to mimic speech and additionally coveted by a covert traditional medicinal practice, involving their disembodied heads. Their scarlet red tail feathers are also coveted as traditional status symbols. Sometimes poachers will have a few bait birds, with clipped wings to attract the flocks with their enticing whistles. As some birds land on the strategically placed roosts, others will descend to the ground in search of grass seeds, at which point a net is thrown over them, capturing the unsuspecting flock.

After setting up a primitive camp, we hiked down to a viewing post and watched the sunset as flocks of green pigeons and grey parrots intermixed. A lone buffalo grazed near the forest edge and a sitatunga crossed into the clearing to drink from a waterhole alongside hammerknops, hadada ibis, and a pair of Hartlaub’s ducks.

The next morning we watched fish eagles and African palm nut vultures profit off the weakest ranks amongst the grandiose feeding flocks of green pigeons. Watching them scatter after a predatorial advance reminded me to Leopold’s reference to the now extinct passenger pigeons blotting out the sun with the multitidiousness of their flocks.

We hiked back towards the entrance for our last night in the park, encountering much less wildlife than in our way in. After setting up camp, we headed towards the nearby mirador. I stopped to ease myself as the others went ahead. Arriving, at the lookout less than three minutes behind, I had missed the sighting of three gorillas, two adults and one juvenile. I stared fixedly in the tall grasses, willing a gorilla apparition to manifest, to no avail. I spent the rest of the afternoon sulking and reading the Golden Compass series in the corner of the lookout.

The gorillas did not reappear, but all throughout the evening and into the night, we were serenaded by their vocalizations, along with the maniacal screams of our closer relative; the chimpanzee.

An early morning rush to the lookout followed by a restless night in the noisy forest left me with the impending feeling of failure as I halfheartedly mounted the lookout stairs and gazed into the clearing to find it empty. Accepting defeat, I slouched down to finish the Subtle Sword when Matt and Dave directed our view towards the west edge of the clearing. One black face was visible as the powerful primate cautiously chewed on the succulent stems of grasses and reeds at his disposition. Little by little he inched into the clearing, exposing his great silverback to our collective delight. As he approached a sandpit for a mouthful, a brilliant blue Turaco alighted upon an adjacent branch and a troop of Colobus monkeys scaled a more perpendicular tree.

We were not sure if he would eventually lead more gorillas into the clearing after firstly testing the safety of the site. However, we were not disappointed when he finally left alone, as he had given us over 30minutes to observe his stature. Satisfied with the solidity of seeing a wild gorilla, but also disturbed at how vulnerable the great ape would have been in the case of poachers, we headed down to camp to enjoy a cup of Nescafe before hiking out of the park.

We arrived back at the Kuhn’s by early afternoon and spent the rest of the day reveling in our good fortune and calming inevitable post envy. We were fortunate enough to catch a ride in a WWF car on the way back up to Youkadouma but took a breakdown prone prison bus the rest of the way to Batouri, where we celebrated with the local volunteer in his local night club.

The next day was on the relatively comfortable Orient Express back to Yaounde. At the station, we noticed someone had a grey parrot in a makeshift cage ready to travel to Bertoua. Feeling slightly inspired after our journey with WWF volunteers, we felt it our responsibility to vindicate the bird, but were less successful convincing our Cameroonian co-voyagers of the soundness of our argument.

Upon finally identifying the “villain”, a catholic school teacher, I asked her if she didn’t know it was illegal to keep the bird. “Not for me” she assured me, “maybe for you, my old students here gave me ten as a present, I sold the others, this one I am going to keep as my pet.” “It’s only illegal to take them far away” I was informed. I sighed and noticed the cage had collapsed and that the bird was silent but alive upon arrival in Bertoua five hours later. We watched helplessly as no one seemed to give much notice as it began screeching and whistling again as it was taken down from the hood and transferred to a taxi, presumably to the residence of a catholic school teacher to live out the rest of its lonely life in a cage. I felt like maybe there was something more we could have done, but decided in the end the notorious Cameroonian phrase, on va faire comment? Or what are you going to do, summed up the situation quite nicely. And really what was I to do? Some mentalities are awful hard to change.

Korup National Park, located in the anglophone Southwest Province, is what I imagine my own environment might look like if the hillsides were not currently brimming over with coffee farms and oil palm cultures or other similar signs of human habitation.

Traveling along the paved road, just until Loum in the Littoral Province, before turning down a bumpy, dirt road towards the the anglophone border and the provincial hotspot of Kumba, the farming culture was actually quite intense, including monocultures of banana/plantains, papaya and even thin, leaning corridors of African rubber trees.

We were only able to reach Kumba by dusk, and spent a night in a cheap and clean hotel, waking before sunrise to catch a cab to the park office and south entrance in Mudemba. A small taxi was quickly loaded with six passengers of disproportionate size. We were luckily transferred to a more equitably distributed car halfway to Mudemba and made good time, arriving at the park office and negotiating a guide before being dropped off 10km through palm plantations at the park entrance. A wide, rushing river separated the oil palms from the park, and was accessible only by a crickety suspension bridge, with cracks wide enough between the wooden planks to get a good idea of the menacing fall bellow and no guard rails.

Once across the bridge, our guide took off at the pace of someone who steps frequently into an old growth tropical rainforest. I was, however, more content to linger behind, gawking at the size and convoluted limbs of the massive lowland, canopy trees.

Dangling curtains of prospecting strangler fig roots brushed our foreheads and obstructive liana lattices left us crawling awkwardly with our bulky sacs.

After setting up camp in preconstructed cabins, we headed towards a nearby waterfall. Though it was still early afternoon, the canopy kept our stroll shady. Presence of troops of leaping monkeys were betrayed by the rustlings between the dense blanket of interconnected branches and vines. Occasional grey parrots whistled on the other side of the protective layer along with the whooshing slice of hornbill wings taking flight.

We arrived at the waterfall just before it started raining, so we started back in the light sprinkle and prepared beans and rice in the sheltered kitchen.

The second day we hiked with our packs to 'chimpanzee camp' about 11km up from our first camp. Korup's reputation for fungal diversity and big trees was clear, but as for its rich animal diversity and being home to more than 50 species of large mammals, including the highly endangered and endemic to Cameroon, Drill (Mandrillus leucophaeus),I can offer no testimony.

Korup is the first park to have been established in Cameroon, back in 1986, when Paul Biya was just commencing his presidency. Establishment of the boundaries called for displacement of existing villages, and WWFs involvement brought in stricter enforcement of rules and regulations regarding hunting rights and regulations. To this day there are still some settlements that exist within the park boundaries, though I am not sure of any of the details regarding their states of development or projected plans. WWF is also no longer directly involved in the management of the park. Located flush with the Nigerian border, the park is also rumored to be a route of passage for poachers and illegal border crossing. The dense vegetation of a rainforest is also not the most optimal for surprising animals. There are so many places to hide, but we still saw signs of forest elephant tracks and scats next to their trails.

I was however, tired and satisfied upon reaching the Chimpanzee camp, but a bit disappointed to find that we would be sharing the premises with 20 Cameroonian students, conducting a study for the Smithsonian, which involved measuring DBH of selected tree species.

We spent the rest of the afternoon hiking out to a lookout point up a near but steep incline to get a more panoramic view of the entirety of the forest, and a hazy view into Nigeria.

By the time we got back to camp the researchers had also returned and were enjoying an evening of washing laundry in the river, singing songs and playing soccer. What little hopes we still had of wildlife viewings, were completely dashed.

We made it back to the precarious bridge by 10am the next morning and after spending several hours in the Mudemba car park, were on our way back to Kumba. This time, however, the ride was not so quick, as the driver had many errands to run, including buying and transporting barrels of moonshine and bushels of plantains along the way. We reached Kumba by dark, and headed to Limbe the next day for a day of black sand, sunshine and subtle waves.

Living in the rolling shadow of Mt. Manengouba, it is a wonder that I did not find the time during a whole year to visit its notorious twin lakes of volcanic origin at the apex. Always having the intention, it was not until the saturdy before International Women's Day that this sentiment would be realized. Hiking from my house, while not impossible, would take an unreasonable amount of time and probably manifest into me lost and eating overripe coffee berries and uncooked manioc for sustenance in a nearby farm. Luckily, another volunteer lives halfway up the mountain, albeit on the other side. The highschool students were planning their annual trek to the lakes, so we decided to accompany them.

With an anticipated early morning departure, I arrived in Moumekeng the eveing before. Taking the paved road towards Douala just until Manjo, and negotiating a motorcyle up the regretfully bumpy, mountain road took about 2hours, not including time spent waiting for cars to fill and leave. It was market day in Moumekeng, but as I arrived in the early evening, most vendors, including the ones selling horse meat, where already packed up and gone.

Anticipating a strenous hike the next morning, Dan's cook prepared a fortifyingly, nutritious meal of deep fried plaintains, makeral and porcupine. As a rule, I try most bush meat, as long as it is not endangered, to my knowledge, or a primate. Porcupine was no exception to this rule, as I sank my teet into its gamey forearm, but I draw the line when it comes to sucking the perfectly preserved, deep fried claws, evidently structured for efficient digging (not your general american porcupine!), clean of all flesh.

Our bellies sufficiently filled with grease and regrets, we turned in early for a good nights sleep. Like all mountain villages, Moumekeng's evening climate was favorably cool and mosquito free. I even had to use a blanket, an idle fantasy in my own humid little piece of paradise!

Rising the next day before the sun, we firstly headed back th the cook's house to receive a packed lunch of last nights leftovers, plus a weighty amount of baton de manioc. We made our way towards the congregated and noisy crowd of sleep deprived adolescents, even in my refreshing slumber, I was concious of the Makossa music playing until 3:30am at the highschool, where the kids spent the night. For those who still had batteries and portable devices, the music was starting up again for the long haul.

We surged out in front of the crowd, but were quickly trailed by the eager and enthusiastic youth. Having identified a guide in a nearby village along the way, we split off from the group, who opted for an alternative path. This I didn't mind as less noise meant a greater plausability of wildlife sightings. Which with the frequency of bushmeat in this locale, I would assume to be high.

Arriving at our guides house, we found he underestimated our timeliness and had squeezed in an early morning palm wine harvest upon this premonition. The sun rose over Manengouba while we waited for his imminent return. By 7am, Roger was ready to go with three liters of a mild palm wine- manot, for the road.

The village and farms quickly disappeared behind us as we entered the forest upon an obscure trail. We were soon joined by an capricious community member and his resilent radio phone for entertainment. My aspirations of seeing wild monkies dashed, I turned my attentions towards my familiar floral holdfasts. Strangler figs descending deviously down the trunks of unsuspecting ironwoods created crevices and crooks, overflowing with mouthfuls of soft mosses and liverworts in the wetter areas. A bit higher up, the flora changed as more light penetrated into the open grassy exspanses, tangles of dried grasses were interspersed with warm, magenta, waist high Rhexias, and bushy yellow Hypericums, familiar looking foamy lichens were strewn haphazardly across the night by the previous evening's wind and rain.

Well along the path, and past all noticeable signs of civilisation, excluding the occasional cookie wrapper, we were passed by a woman carrying a farm basket on her back. Dan and I were perplexed, as to her destination, but a few kilometers more and the enigma was resolved in the cultivated hillsides of macabo, growing under the spotty cover of the scraggly montane overstory.

By now the evidence of resident Mboros was undeniable, in the scattered fresh cow pies, and hopeful, yet ineffectively constructed stick fences. However, it was not until we reached our highest altitude and descended into the still foggy valley, towards the lakes, that we saw cows grazing in the dry wetlands and Mboro settlements from a distance. Along with a small herd of cows, a good number of sheep also dined upon the palatable grasses and sedges of the mountain top.

Wading through waste high bunch grasses, we emerged at the rim of the smaller, emerald green, male lake. Without a visible path and a steep slope, partially covered in forest, I had no intention of descending to the male lake's shore. What sealed the deal was the electric level of myths and history associated with the lake. For one, it is forbidden to swim in the lake, if the eerie green did not dissuade you in the first place, the common belief of an underwater villaged might be more convincing. Like many waters, the male lake is not excluded from hosting a thriving population beneath its surface. These people are only visible to sorcerers and practicers of witchcraft, who reportedly converse quite cordially with the inhabitants of an apparently parallel world. Water taken from this source is also used in traditional medicines and cultural practices. Even more appetizing is the occasional sacrifice and division of a sheep on the shore, because, thats right, it is split evenly between the people beneath and below the surface of the caldera.

Immediatley adjacent to the male lake, the female lake is more accomadating with stairs right down to stone viewing benches and swimmable, fishable shoreline. Upon our 11am arrival, the already accounted for students boasted of an 8am arrival, and where happily swimming and snapping photos along the shore. As an anomalous white woman, I was asked to pose for numerous photos. My dirty, ripped jeans and sweaty tanktop felt glaringly inappropriate next to the elementary school teacher who had changed into formal wear for the photo, but I played a good sport and versatily posed in everything from possesive hands on my hips to sisterly embraces, to our guide who kept a safe six inches from me for the photo.

By 12:30, another volunteer, having hiked from Nkongsamba, on another side of the mountain with his dog, met us. The students were not wasting any time, hiking back and soon we had the lake all to ourselves, excluding a few fisherman. We rested briefly, and after a circuitous argument with a council member, demanding an outrageous entrance fee, we headed back.

Arriving in Moumekeng after enjoying a box of red wine in our guides village, I was fortunate enough to find an available motorcyle to take me back down the mountain. The descent was perhaps the most grueling part of the day, but I made it back to Baré in time to pick up my dress from the tailor for the preceding day's parade. I was tired and content with the trip, and only slightly disappointed by the case of ameobic dysentary I mananged to pick up somewhere along the way, (don't worry, its over with by now).

Snuggly tucked underneath the voluptuous bump of West Africa and above the slightly hopeful equatorial belt; Cameroon claims bragging rights of being central Africa’s change purse of diversity. Through an anthropologist’s eye, you would be struck by the more than 250 distinct tribes, all struggling to hang on to their unique customs and native dialects. An entrepreneur would be more enthusiastic about the strategic coastline and motto of peace, lending to limitless possibilities of imports and exports, which leads into the varied landscape and the agricultural potential of cash crops as varied as cotton, coffee, and cacao. Perusing thru an ecologist’s lens, you would be struck by the number of complex ecosystems, spilling over the frontiers of a country roughly the size of Nevada.

The Grand South, or the seven lower regions, one of which I am an inhabitant, range from Humid Lowland Rainforests to Grassland Plateaus. However the Grand North opens up into the gradually expanding sahelian sash. The capitol of the Adamaoua region, Ngoundéré, resting well above sea level on a distinct plateau, is consistently forested, gradually plunging onto level, scrub shrubs, and shade campaigns of peripheral neem trees. However, my dear anthropologist, the nation of Islam has burgeoned in between the mango trees and roaming herds of graminoid macerating cattle, giving way to geometrically appealing, polygamous compounds of four wives to one husband, who share responsibilities in the cultivation of edible millet and exportable cotton.

Call to prayer five times a day and denial of alcohol are made up for in the vices of sweet tea, consumed even at the apex of the blazing sun’s victory, and greasy flanks of grass fed bovines.

The Feast of the Ram supplants the annual festive holiday cheer of Christian Christmas. Arriving in a fellow volunteer’s village; our status of white strangers granted us the privilege of observing the morning communal prayer, all the village men, barefoot and kneeling on prayer mats, facing locally the nipple of Ngoundéré Mountain and obscurely; Mecca. Never have my bare ankles felt so obscene, as I tried in vain to be as inconspicuous as possible throughout the reading of the Koran, and what I can only assume was a reference to the narrowly avoided infanticide of Abraham’s first born son, Ishmael.

My camera battery refused to document the subsequent, slaughtering of fully grown rams at the chef’s compound, but the taste of piping hot liver, as the skin was expertly removed from the still warm host’s body, is still lingering metallic on my omnivorous tongue.

Garoua, the capitol of the North Province is known for being the birthplace of Cameroon’s first president, Ahmadou Ahidjo, and its resident hippos, floating amiably in the bend of the Bénoué River, at the entrance of town. However, Maroua, the capitol of the Extreme North Province is probably the favorite child of all the northerly cities. A clean and well shaded city, it strategically serves as a base for exploring some or Cameroon’s most developed touristic attractions. Waza Wildlife Park, provides a day safari experience, the viewing possibilities fluctuate throughout the year, dry season being the best for megafauna clustered around watering holes. Two months into the dry season, there was still too high of a water frequency throughout the park to witness this phenomena, but not all was lost, as we were still fortunate enough to see giraffes, several species of antelopes, warthogs, ostriches and a multitude of other bird species including dull flocks of Guinea fowl, egrets, spoonbills, heron rookeries, various birds of prey, vultures and aerodynamically, impossible Marabos. Elusive elephants and lions were only evident from their tracks and scats.

All these experiences culminate into unprecedented touristic possibilities, but whether it is a blessing or a curse, tourism is still highly underdeveloped in Cameroon, which probably helps locals to hang on to their culture and pride, but also inhibits traveling on a shoe string budget and creates endless pathways for corruption and unclear regulations.

The bizarre, landscape and refuge of Rhumsiki, an hour and half motorcycle ride into the bush, provided us, as the sole tourists during peak season, with a choice of four hotels, and a multitude of local children selling crafts or offering guide services. So, it will be interesting to see how tourism unfolds in the wake of impending globalization. For better or worse, Peace Corps volunteers could certainly be useful in censuring and creation of sustainable opportunities for artisans and entrepreneurs alike. Personally, I am a fan of anything that promotes conservation of culture and ecosystems, especially when it effectively concerns the country of my current residence.

En lieu of organizing any spectacular American feast for Thanksgiving, I traveled to a village outside of the Northwest capitol of Bamenda to participate in a cultural festival, dreamed up and pursued by another volunteer and his counterpart. The idea behind the festival was a partnership between American culture, as represented by volunteers in jeans and t-shirts and the Moghamo people, more formally represented by the chiefs and processions of its 22 existing villages. The end result was impressive as the enthusiasm of the Moghamo people greatly overshadowed its American initiator.

Cameroonians certainly love getting together for the sake of protocol or maybe are even obligated to recognize annual events such as youth day, international women’s day, independence day, and of course the never ending installation of rotating functionaries. The celebrations tend to manifest in the form of waiting a long time for the big guys to arrive, a somber national anthem, several monotonous speeches and an obligatory parade, followed by an evening of fighting over a place in the buffet line and debaucherous palm wine consumption. I’m not sure if any one even has any fun at these events.

However the Batibo cultural festival was a different kind of event. Yes, the district officer never showed up and the sub-district officer came five hours late, the Cameroonian national anthem was followed by it American equivalent, and nobody listened to the ensuing speeches, but the bulk of the program was spent exhibiting the distinctive dance styles and musical accompaniments of the representative villages, interspersed by crowd pleasing American interventions, in the genre of hip-hop dance, folk music and even a round of American football, The Wave included. Dance routines, involving jou-jous, drums and even a sacrificial goat, revolved around the center of the flat field. One group of elementary students, imitated Moghamo warriors and danced menacingly with wooden swords. Jou-jous are the mysterious entities that have inexplicable powers and invoke fear and respect in all who cross their paths, the true identity of a jou jou should remain a secret to all but the most privileged class, this means no women allowed, generally speaking. The circumference of the stadium, where the festival took place, was full of colorful displays flanking village chiefs and their proudest succession. Observing from their individual palm shades, the village chiefs, sipped palm wine from hollow bull horn cups, and distributed Kola nuts upon proper salutation. I've mentioned before that my region is not too strict concerning how one salutes the chief, I just have to remember not to offer to shake his hand before he offers his own hand. However, some chiefs will never shake hands with anyone, it is also an insult to touch them, so consequently the proper behavior involves kneeling in front of the chief, rubbing your hands together, as if warming them on a cold day, and clapping in a light, discordant fashion.

The reason why I was such a fan of this festival, although my participation was limited to behind the lens, (I boycotted both football and choreographed dance for this designation), was that it facilitated a cultural explosion in an area of Cameroon where culture is quickly losing its importance. Sure it is true that culture is always changing, but as an American, especially, I am envious of people who can trace their heritage, and whether they continue to practice dances climaxing in goat extension followed by sacrifice, or the marriage of adolescent girls to inert grandfathers, at least their progeny will remember and hopefully be able to continue to pass on these stories for future generations.

Last Saturday started out just like any other, I slept in until about 6:30am, then rolled out from under my mosquito net just before 7am, motivated by the persistent ruckus coming from the neighboring compound, that would only be acceptable in the states well after noon, and the dull premonition that if I didn’t open my window shutters soon, someone would shortly be pounding on them, checking to see why on earth I was still in bed at such a late hour. I could always lie and say it’s the “paludisme” and believe me it wouldn’t be the first time.

Taking advantage of a free day, I started by sweeping up the week’s accumulation of dust, mouse nests and severed cockroach appendages before washing the floor with my diminishing, dry season, water supply. Afterwards, I picked up my finely filed machete and set out for some lawn maintenance. This is something I don’t get, even in Africa; people get after you if you let the weeds around your house grow too tall. My neighbors don’t understand why I don’t just buy some weed killer, as I can clearly afford it, however, no matter how many new things I am willing to try here, I still can’t justify augmenting the amount of unregulated pesticides in the environment, solely for the purpose of keeping a tidy yard, so I have insisted it will be solved with manual labor, and of my own accord, to which they laugh, and rightfully so, because by the time I finish “ mowing the lawn” with my machete, the weeds on the other side are already back to their original stature.

Anyway, once I had gathered some wood from the banana/plantain farm behind my house and left it to dry in the midday sun, I prepared myself to finally make my way to the neighbor’s to discover the cause of all this rowdiness.

Upon arrival, I found a family reunion of sorts, sitting in a circle, with the chiefs of the family in the obvious apex. Banana leaves with crumbs of brightly orange koki littered the ground; the air was filled with the sickly, sweet smell of palm wine. After saluting the notables, I was quickly handed a plastic cup full of this fermenting liquid, and shortly after a woman, Anne-Marie, covered in orange remnant flakes of dried palm wine, opened a warm Castel beer with her teeth and handed it to me. With my hands full, the drinkless adjacent men, joked that I had given birth to twins. I shared sips of palm wine with the accumulated children. “Don’t give any more to him,” I was instructed, regarding the barely walking son of the chef de quartier, “he was already drunk this morning.”

By this time plates of food were being presented to the notable men of the family, and as an anomaly, a woman, but somehow deserving special recognition as a stranger, I was served two heaping plates of food. I set to work on something that has become my most noteworthy accomplishment in Cameroon; finishing my plate. I started with the koki and coco yams, and after washing my hands attempted the couscous de manioc with sauce de pistache. Noticing a crowd of children congregating a few yards behind me, I turned just in time to see four struggling legs, flailing in the air, attempting for one final time to flee the inevitable, as its partially decapitated head was severed with one final whack of a dubiously sharpened machete. This sacrifice all took place next to a Drysinia shrub in the middle of the compound, a tribute and sometimes medium of communication with the family ancestors.

I hastened to finish my remaining sauce, not sure if the characteristic musky smell was coming from the meat on my plate, or the freshly butchered goat behind me.

On my way out, I stopped to regard the catagorically arranged body parts, the spleen laid neatly, next to the intestines, two men, dividing the flesh with the aforementioned machete. “You are going to eat everything?” I asked, eyeing the pile of hooves, and recalling with displeasure the cartilaginous crunching of pig’s feet from a few weeks ago. “Yes” they assured me, “even the intestines, after we clean the shit out, we will split the parts between all of the family members. Here is your part,” said Essobo, waving a small freshly sliced cut of flesh in my face, , “I don’t know what to do with that” I faltered, (remember I was a vegetarian for ten years, even without the fur attached, I am not so sure the best way to prepare meat). Unswayed, they offered to keep it for me and prepare it after I returned from my quick trip to town in the evening.

By the time I had finished my tour of Bare centre, the sun was just setting and the first stars of the clear, dry season, sky, visible over tops of the towering oil palm silhouettes. I was presented with the well prepared goat, handing off the fat and skin to the more than willing village kids, and sharing a box of red wine, and several whiskey sachets before being sent home with my share of the family’s rice, salt and a sweet glass of palm wine to put me to bed.

After spending a year immersed in a francophone province of Cameroon, it has become clear that the most offensive insult to lance at someone, whether it be for putting their shoes on the wrong feet, greeting you with their left hand or refusing to pay a decent price for a kilo of Chinese mackerel, is villageoise. So that is why many host country nationals are at a loss for words when I inform them of my choice to move from the decent sized town center, to a rural satellite village.

It is true that this move has come with a few complications, including no running water or electricity, both of which I had fairly consistent access to in my previous location. Not only is there no market in my town, there is not even a boutique within 2kms. However, here and there small entrepreneurs haven taken the initiative to sell essential provisions, including warm beer, cassava whisky(for rainy mornings), kola nuts and with luck a little palm wine.

On a more personal level, my daily routine has changed in the following ways. I have space for gardening and farm demonstrations, I am working on setting up my traditional kitchen, so that I can learn the art of Cameroonian cooking, I'm developing a finer palette for palm wine, and I am constantly impressed by the generous and warm natures of country folks in Cameroon.

I should mention that I am living in the house of a village elite, it is much more spacious than the former house, which gives me the opportunity to welcome larger groups of farmers in for banana bread and palm wine after church on sundays.

While most people might think of Cameroon as a francophone country, tucked between the Nigerian border and its French counterparts rest twin Anglophone provinces. Although I am not far from the border, I have yet to cross into the English speaking Southwest, home to volcanic mountains and a coastline of black sand beaches, I have however, had the pleasure of spending several days in the rolling highlands of the Northwest Province. After several months of French integration it was startling to be able to converse with strangers. Although the rhythm isn’t quite the same, the lyrical English of anglophone Cameroonians is still more comprehensible for me than French.

As a training field trip, we visited an agroforestry center, a 45-minute ascending drive from Kumbo where they farm typical staples such as corn and greens and raise sheep in elevated pens. The dry grassy highlands, clotted with dense stands of eucalyptus provide ideal pastures for sheparding in its truest biblical sense. A circuitous, torrential road follows the elevated ridge, arriving, broken, in the provincial capital of Bamenda. Here is a place where one can dine in the presence of European tourists and pay outrageous sums for scanty excuses for cheeseburgers.

The radiating villages maintain an elevated pretext for traditional hierarchy and local customs. On a recent trip to visit a fellow agroforestry volunteer, we stopped by the palace to celebrate the New Year. In a single sitting, I managed to provoke an uproar of giggles by committing every tasteless felony, from crossing my legs in front of the chief to accepting a beverage with my left hand. The conversation drifted between “proper” English, native dialect, and pidgin English, accompanied by protracted silences. The wives of the chief took turns sitting next to him and asking me, in the next most revered seat, “How do you find Cameroon?” We stared at each other until the obscurity took over and the chief excused us all, but not before giving an invitation to return for a dance party, scheduled to commence later in the evening.

I think I prefer my own situation, where village chiefs are covered in dirt and grime from working all day in the fields and too poor to have more than one wife. Still the Northwest has plenty of charm, Anglophones are generally sweeter and seem to put genuine emphasis into their salutations, nights and mornings are refreshingly cool enough to see one’s breathe and I only have to travel through three provinces to get there to see some of my favorite volunteers.

In a country where it is more common to have seven children than three, groups of mischevious children lurk predictabley around every corner, fighting boredom and avoiding homework by soliciting strangers and devising new distractions. I would argue that kids are basically entertained by similar themes on all habitable continents, ( i.e. pop stars, bonbons, and round things that bounce), still there are inevitably noticeable differences.

While the youth of America might be occupied electronically with everything from realistic gaming systems to motorized scooters, Cameroonian children are capable of utilizing their imaginations more freely. Trash piles are picked through to salvage such treasures as discarded sardine cans and rusty kitchenware. From this and a bit of string, a tumbling and often noise making simple machine can be formed. Old tires, guided by machetes are splendid for rolling and running alongside, especially on muddy descents. Bottle caps serve as jacks and empty wine boxes inflate like balloons. `

Monday, February 11th was La Fete de la Jeunesse, or national Youth Day. All across the country, preschool through highschool age students performed skits and marched in front of local nobilities and bureaucrats. The skits were something similar to what one might see in the states, inaudible and childish mimicry of adult situations, followed by highschoolers dancing coquettishly to modern hits. Everywhere you go it seems post adolescents like to dress sluttily and dance scandalously in front of uncomfortable audiences, only in Cameroon it is usually the boys performing the more seductive hip undulations. The most pleasing skits received small monetary motivations from the audience; in the same manner one salutes an exotic dancer. Cleaning supplies were awarded to select schools at the end of the ceremony, as it is the students who scrub and polish the classrooms on a weekly basis. And by cleaning supplies I mean buckets, and jugs to fill with water from the river or adjacent wells and new machetes to cut back the ensuing jungle, no such extravagances as mops, Comet or sponges exist to the masses here.

Cameroonian children work hard and often freely. Employing petits to carry out small errands, such as waiting in line for beignets or selling avocados is just the start of it, and there is absolutely no whining or sulking upon assignment of even more arduous tasks, for minimal compensation. I have a few students who will stop by to pass the time and if I happen to be in the process of washing dishes or pulling water from the well, they automatically push me out of the way and efficiently finish my chores. I can only offer such small condolences as bananas or flavored water.

People may not have much money to spare, but most of them have land on which they cultivate corn and root crops to transform into balls of couscous topped with palm oil based sauces, infused with dried fish. At least in this part of the country, I have not seen that people go hungry, still the lack of nutrition is evident in the often small stature and disproportionate, inflated bellies of its youth. In the classroom and formal settings, children are spic and span, personal hygiene is highly revered, but otherwise they generally sport well worn, if not filthy second hand clothes, in a manner most children would relish.

All that said, it is important to note kids here do their fair share of deranging, at least if they think you have something that might be of interest to them. Toddlers giggle and scream la blanche, or the equivalent in their native dialect when I pass them, never tiring of the humorous nature of my lack of melanin, though I have accumulated quite a few more freckles. Teenage boys call me cherie and beckon me from a distance, to approach would mean being asked for my phone number or money for food, I just wag my finger and tell them sternly “Je suis ta grande soeur.” I think everyone can laugh at that. “Tu vas me garder quoi” and “tu as rien pour moi?” are some of the most recurrent questions I hear from adults and children alike. They both basically mean, what are you going to give me? And while a simple presentation of a bon-bon or kola nut would not go refused, there is really no obligation to give anything but a witty retort, but sometimes they are hard to find, so I have started preempting and asking this question myself, especially to small children. So far I haven’t received anything, but a few invitations to eat starchy meals at their mother’s expenses and the promise of a sleek pair of sunglasses, but it can’t hurt to try, n’est ce pas?

Better Late than Never

Starting four months into my current

expedition may not seem the most prudent course of action, especially

for those of you interested in a dynamic step by step discourse, but in

all honesty it has taken me this long to find an appropriate comfort with the technological offerings of Cameroon.

Rather than attempt an awkward chronology, I am categorizing my venture up to this point into

relevant themes and random recollections. There will be no witty titles

to these entries. They might also be awkward. If you don’t like them,

you don’t have to read them, I will read them to myself and laugh at my

own jokes alone. It is your choice.

What you missed is; I am

officially a volunteer, that is, I endured the tribulations of a

convalescent training, meant to dissuade the wary. I have landed

myself in the notoriously diverse country of Cameroon. Peace Corp

service has gone interrupted here for 45 years; they have also had the

same president for 25 years. A brief German occupation abruptley halted by

the consequences of World War I left its (Deutsch) mark in the

lingering breweries and oversized beers to its predecessors from France

and England. Ensuing independence was not without the title

establishment of eight francophone provinces and two anglophone,

towering over the multitude of local dialects and customs.

The first eleven weeks after arriving in country I lived in a training village in

the west province known as Bangangte. Being the tail-end of an

uninhibited rainy season, the biggest challenge proved walking to and

from the training center against a saturated, sticky red-iron earth.

From an equatorial standpoint, the west was cool and fairly

mountainous, supporting even aged stands of temperate species of pine,

juniper and eucalyptus, the native forest an unresolved mystery.

My habitation was the master bedroom of a small, chic apartment, with what

I figure to be Cameroon’s first generation of yuppies. My mother and

father both teach at the highschool and have one son, who attends the

more expensive catholic elementary school. All families have to pay

about 18,000CFA a year per child to attend school. This is under

50USD, but still enough to keep many students from graduating,

especially in rural communities. My little brother was lucky to go to

a private school, where the student teacher ratio was closer to 40:1,

opposed to 80:1 at l’ecole publique. Mon petit frere and I became the

best of friends, mostly because we would take sauntering walks

together, which gave him respite from treacherous homework exercises,

enforced upon him by overbearing parents, and sometimes, if the mood

struck me I would buy him a bon-bon too. My petit frere is someone I

would like to keep in my life, but at seven he isn’t much for phone

conversations, so we will have to find other ways to communicate. I

will surely dwell further upon him in future entries.

As an agroforestry volunteer, in a predominately francophone country, my

training consisted largely of conversational French, Cameroonian style

and sustainable farming techniques for subsistence farmers. In the

mean time, I picked up the proper way to pluck, gut and prepare a

chicken, how to discreetly down a shot and a half of whiskey from a

palm sized plastic sac, and bartering in the market became routine.

And somehow I managed to pass my French proficiency exams, (by flirting

shamelessly with the examiner, no doubt) and not get sent home for

violating the plethora of binding rules by which I was obligated to

abide.

As personal vehicles are almost unheard of in Cameroon, public transportation is omnipresent and convenient, to a certain degree. For short distances, motos are quick and efficient. Peace Corps requires all volunteers to protect themselves with officially issued helmets. Most moto drivers cannot afford helmets, so the sight of a blanche wearing a helmet is understandably fifty times more exciting and hilarious than a white girl walking down the street. Before the end of the day, the whole village will know that les blanche took a moto with her helmet to town and back. The route is risky, especially if your moto driver is audacious and young. On New Years day my taxi hit a moto. After twenty minutes of recuperation time, without any sign of police or medical aid, negotiations began regarding how much the moto driver would pay the taxi for damages his body inflicted upon the car. It was his brash actions, after all, which led up to the inauspicious collision. While the chaffuer waited for his compensation to arrive from outlying resources, a vacant car arrived to take us to our destination. Nine people piled into the standard Honda civic, including the driver, who shared a seat with a full grown man. I squeezed into the back seat, balancing an eleven year old in her Sunday best on my lap, her mother humming hymnals beside me.

Which brings me to the second choice of transport. Cars leaving for predetermined destinations will wait incalculable amounts of time to fill up to their maximum capacities, which means four to five in the back and three to four in the front. In francophone regions, the person who shares a seat with the driver is referred to as le petit chaffeur. The addition of a petit chaffeur is often met with clucks of discontent and berating remarks towards the driver, but in a pinch most everyone would prefer to take this seat than wait ten minutes for the next cab. I prefer to take taxis on medium sized journeys and have gotten to the point where I don’t feel secure if I can freely move any extremity.

For longer trips, it is best to seek out an agence, which will sometimes even have a scheduled departure time, though everything is subject to filling up the seats, and ticket prices are often fixed, so haggling for the right price is unnecessary. The alternative is to wait along the roadside and wave down passing vehicles, determine their destination and negotiate a reasonable price. It can be a more economical endeavor, but often time is lost in vehicles that stop frequently to pick up passengers, that are stopped frequently by ubiquitous roadside gendarmes, handing out phony tickets and demanding petty retributions upon whims, or even more trying, the vehicle breaks down upon a particularly steep mountain descent and you are forced to attend the next available car.

On the whole, transportation is a trying, often comical large expenditure of time. Vehicles are bombarded upon every stop by vendors, supporting baskets of bananas, peanuts, and carrots atop their heads. Hands push bags of passion fruits, kola nuts and fruit noir furtively in open windows. Money is swiftly exchanged and the wheels roll on.

As public transportation is the primary means for transporting not only people, but also goods, it is not rare to share space with baskets full of chickens; goats are stuffed in trunks, or held lapwise across motos. I have seen a moto on market day drive away with two large pigs, one squealing earnestly, and the other panting on the brink of consciousness. And as testimony to just how well integrated I have become; just a few days ago I traveled to the provincial capitol in the west where I picked up 12 cane rats, stuffed between three plywood boxes. From the breeding farm to the agence on the other side of the city, they were strapped heightwise on back of a moto. After relentlessly arguing for a reasonable price and with the assurance that the bus was to leave in small time, the three boxes were tied top. One and a half hours later, the bus finally left. Two and a half hours later I was dropped off, only to secure the cane rats to another moto and distribute them to the waiting farmers in the center of town. After several beers and jubilations, the farmers finally placed their boxes of domesticated bush-meat into the back of a pick up and headed to their respective domiciles. I was anxious and overbearing about my plywood boxes full of rats, to Cameroonians, it was only natural to transport them in this manner. And much to my surprise, the fatalities have yet to ensue

While I may not have the busiest work schedule right now, there sure are a lot of memorial services to attend to in the dry season. This is one aspect of Cameroonian culture in which the differences are incongruous with my own country’s coping style.

A Dueil happens, like in the states, a week or so after someone dies. There body is, however, transported from the morgue to their ancestral village. Sometimes this can be several hours away. In that case, the appropriate number of private vehicles are rented to transport funeral processions from relative metropolis’ down rickety, dusty roads to the family house. A eulogy is given by several to many mourners, often in a native dialect and always incomprehensible. Afterwards several young men, of strapping disposition, lift and carry the casket to a pre-dug hole in the vicinity of the house. Weeping and sometimes a marching band commence and persist until the earth is full again. The marching band may continue to play, often jubilant guests dance and money is waved and collected, presumably to help the family with expenses. The women make sure each guest has something to eat, even if it is just a baguette with one piece of meat inside. Everyone returns home the same day, but the family will continue to receive grieving guests for at least a week following the burial. Women in the family shave their heads and don the same mourning outfits, though often vibrantly colored, for at least a month, and widows resign to sleeping on the cold, frequently dirt floor for the following week. Cameroon is diverse enough and traditions surely differ between ethnic groups, but these are the situations of which, I have so far been a part.

I went to a dueil last sunday, it was for the sister of one of the farmers I work with, in a village 6km from chez moi. While there, I was fed two servings of koki (a spicy, spongy bean cake), with sides of boiled plaintains, one heaping pile of rice and fish, and a saucer of chicken covered in an oily tomato based sauce with a side of baton de manioc (a gelatinous stick of transformed cassava), not to mention numerous glasses of palm wine to wash it all down. As I am somewhat an anomaly, I do get special treatment at celebrations, but generally, Cameroonians are extremely generous when it comes to food, and it is such bad form to refuse. Sometimes eating here feels like a sport, luckily there are usually enough kids around to help, if you really can’t manage. On my walk home I was solicited by the wife of the chef of my cartier, she presented me with another plate of koki and boiled plaintains, and demanded I eat every last bite. She also proposed that I accept the position of the chefs second wife, after I refused the hands of two present and willing bachelors. I don’t know what she is thinking; I have no idea how to cook Cameroonian food.

A Funeraille, however is in the tradition of the Bamileke people, who inhabit the West Province, but as previously mentioned, many Bamilekes have migrated to the Littoral Province. The funerialle happens some time after an individual’s death. It is a final goodbye and celebration of the deceased. I attended a funeraille planned by my host father in November. It memorialized the lives of his mother, father and first wife, all of who had died at least ten years previously. It took him this long to accumulate the funds to fufill this obligation, which was necessary if my host mother, Sophie, was to be recognized as a legitimate spouse in the Bamileke tradition. Sophie, was responsible for the preparations of the majority of consumable amenities, including the transformation of eleven chickens, one goat and a sheep into something edible by Cameroonian standards.

I arrived the night before the official ceremony, and while the more invested guests stayed up all night drinking palm wine and splitting kola nuts, I shared the only available bed with two other women.

The next day consisted of matching outfits, outrageous headgear, banquet feasts, warm beer, circular dance formations and a marching band reminiscent of homecoming parade pride in middle America.

In the end it felt a little anti-climatic, as I was a witness to the months of planning and preparations that led up to a ceremony lasting less than one hour. It seems I will have to wait until next year to see how a funeraille looks from the outside, as the season is officially pinned to the month of November. As for dueils, it seems the infirm pass appropriately in the midst of the dry season. Once the rain starts, transportation of large processions will be a dangerous affair, on unpaved roads leading to surprisingly complex villages.

While mourning of the deceased does include weeping, wailing, and other deprecatory practices, the conglomeration of distant relatives and friends, drinking and feasting breeds a more festive atmosphere. I have yet to master the wailing and I often forget to be somber.

An inexplicable twist of fate landed me a life in the jutting apex of the Littoral province, sandwiched between the rusty west and Anglophone southwest, there has been a heavy migration into a more fecund vacancy. Traditionally the largest ethnic umbrella in the district of Baré-Bakem are Mbo, people of comparatively milder temperament. An overwhelming number of Bamileke have settled here, fleeing overpopulation and political turmoil, amongst other reasons, in the west province and profiting off hard work ethic and younger soils. The cash crop of the region is coffee, and I don’t mean shade grown, organic Café arabica, I am talking about Nescafe, folgers crystals Café robusta. Additionally, farmers produce an exceptional quality of palm oil, for in country consumption; maize and cassava are both staple crops, along with peanuts, plaintains and any number of starchy, yet edible root crops. I am the second agroforestry volunteer to be assigned to this post. However, I am still working on identifying and commencing upon an appropriate course of action.

The dry season has brought with it a number of airborne maladies, who have taken up residence in the appetizing recesses of my mucous membranes. In other words, it is taking my body a while to adjust to a lethargic humidity and an occasional dust swollen breeze.

I inhabit a surprisingly comfortable residence. My three room domicile comes with electricity, a fairly consistent water source and a hospitable veranda bedecked by an unruly rose bush.

I also have a post mate who works at the highschool right across the street and I am 15minute taxi ride from Nkongsamba, which is a big enough city to find a few rare amenities such as cheese, cucumbers and the internet.