March 4, 2005

In a surprising, never-before-seen result, defying all precedent and bewildering the Cameroonian press, His Excellency Paul Biya won another 7-year term on October 10, 2004. This new mandate will extend his presidency to 2011, effectively raising the bar on democratic longevity (although, believe it or not, Mr. Biya is only 7th on the list of longest-reigning African leaders). If he finishes out this term, he will have been president nearly 30 years. How does he do it, you wonder? Well, his platform said nothing of such juicy political fodder as gay marriage or abortion. It was pretty simple, really. Cameroon is at peace, and people don't want war. The campaign slogan was blurry at best: “Le Cameroun des grandes ambitions.” A Cameroon of greater achievements. (Printed on gigantic billboards with a “photoshopped” Paul Biya leading a diverse crowd of people.) The slogan has become the favorite punch line of jokes at the bar.

Q: When will they pave the road? When will they pay our salaries? When will they reform the education system? When will I eat? A: That's not included in the greater achievements. Most people I know seem relatively content. The recent increase in crime, however, may be tipping the scale in a negative direction.

But we'll get to that. First, I want to talk about food. I don't think I'd ever really known how much I appreciated good food before coming here. And, for the record, the popular village plate of cow hoof is not considered good food. (Sometimes I pull my hair out wondering... if you can get hoof every day in Ndélélé, what the hell did they do with the rest of the cow??) When Thanksgiving rolls around, it becomes an opportunity for volunteers to gorge themselves like never before. I had chicken and stuffing in 2003. In 2004, I had amoebas. More volume was coming out than I was putting in, and, in a fetal position on my bed with death appearing on the horizon, I had to wonder when the end would come. Then I took some pills that made everything taste like metal, and my poop was solid again. The wonders of modern medicine. So what was the cause? Nothing more than my habit of eating food that looks good (cold meat brochettes) as opposed to what's prepared well (hot cow hoof). But really, what would you choose? (Nevetheless, there are a number of local dishes that I will greatly miss when I go back home. Can you even find manioc or eru in the United States?)

Fast forward one month and I'm meeting my parents in Yaoundé for Christmas break. Over their two weeks here, I had two major realizations: (1) Always expect the unexpected and (2) bush taxis and airplanes in Cameroon are not that different. How I came to these conclusions:

(1) My mom and dad set up a tour through Dream Weaver travel from the United States, arranging for a driver, a guide, and a car. This would spare them from the dreaded bush taxi. I never imagined that the wheel would fly off our land cruiser, resulting in my first vehicular accident in country and forcing us into... the dreaded bush taxi.

(2) You can spend four hours waiting for a bush taxi to face a ride that takes seven hours. Or you can also spend eight hours waiting for an airplane to face a ride that takes two hours. In the end, you'll always end up with a day wasted waiting in a hot room. In sum: traveling here blows.

The vacation, however, was awesome. In the Extreme North province, we visited Waza National Park, where giraffes, elephants, monkeys, ostriches, and antelopes were in abundance. (I envy Kristie, who saw a lion take down an antelope only a few weeks later, but no elephants for her.) Christmas was spent in Ndélélé. My neighbor Eveline had her 3-year-old daughter Chelsea baptized, so there was a big party on the 25th. The 26th we went to church and then spent the afternoon at a bar, with people offering us rounds of drinks. That evening, we ate bushmeat with the mayor and the brother of Her Excellency Chantal Biya. (The Chantal Biya Foundation had donated soap, clothes, and other goods to a pygmy community outside of Yokadouma so that, according the CRTV report, “the pygmy children could celebrate Christmas like other children around the world.” Doing what, I'm not sure. Washing the clothes, maybe?) Then my parents stuck it out with me on the 14-hour ride back to Yaoundé, despite a flat tire, a malfunctioning starter, and an encounter with some very drunk gendarmes. This led to realization (3): Gendarmes are assholes.

In early February, a math teacher colleague, Mr. Engoulou, invited me to spend the night in his village for the one-year anniversary of his father's death. Prior to this, I had thought my village was in the bush. Not so much. The driver of the minivan we rented from Yaoundé refused to take us all the way because of the road. More of a path, really. So we hiked three miles to the family homestead, which was decked out in palm branches, electricity (a small generator), and extremely loud music. There was also a piping hot pot of pork lung and liver waiting to be devoured. Yum. (These animal parts, I have learned, I appreciate best in the form of sausage.) The party itself was spectacular - dancing, good food (No, I mean it. The best fried chicken.), and a huge fight. If there isn't a big fight, it was explained, the party will be judged poorly as the hosts had clearly failed to provide enough alcohol. There was a small ceremony where the widowed mother changed out of the black clothes she'd worn for her year of mourning. Then she took turns dancing with every family member. It was, without a doubt, the happiest funeral I'd ever been to: celebrating the life of a man you love and miss, accepting that he is gone forever, and appreciating your family. There were even party favors - for me, a live rooster that rode back with me all the way to Ndélélé. (This posed problems on the bus to Bertoua, where I happened to meet an attractive French girl on holiday. Having decided to wear week-old clothes, not shower that morning, and transport a live chicken between my feet, I can't have made the greatest impression.)

After a 10-hour ride to Bertoua, averaging about 20 miles her hour, all I wanted was a cold drink. Around midnight, I walked back with volunteers Nick and Cheryl to Nick's house. I remember laughing about something really funny, but I don't recall what because the next thing I knew there were four men with guns standing in Nick's living room. Later when we were locked in the bedroom, Cheryl and I both admitted to initially thinking they were Nick's friends and wondering why Nick's friends would bring guns over. They were bandits. The three of us sat on the couch, facing the wall and trying not to look at their faces. Only one had a mask on, which seemed odd. They went through all of our bags searching for money. We handed it over. They demanded the accessories to Cheryl's digital camera. She didn't have them, so they took my bag of Maggi bouillon cubes. That was bizarre. Then they grabbed a canister of Swiss Miss hot chocolate, a box of tea, and soup mixes that had been sent from the U.S. That was weird, strange, and befuddling. They moved us into the bedroom and locked us in for the night, thankfully not hurting anyone. When Nick's landlord let us out the next morning, we discovered they hadn't taken the television or the guitar, but they had taken our backpacks and a pack of mineral water. This was nonsense. They must have been amateurs. Were the guns fake, I wondered? Were we fools? We'll never know for sure. Over the course of the next day, when we visited gendarmes, police, and the governor of the East Province, it became increasingly clear that they may have been students. None of our stuff was recovered, but everyone at least is OK.