October 4, 2004

The election is coming. And while I feel cheated for missing out on all the heated Bush-Kerry action back home, I'm rather preoccupied with the other election, Cameroon's, which is slated for next Monday. There are sixteen candidates registered to appear on the ballot, and although the fifteen-foot tall advertisements for one particular candidate overshadow the rest, I've been impressed with the campaigning here in the otherwise complacent city of Bertoua. Last week in Ndélélé, the Cameroon People's Democratic Movement (CPDM) came to town, and soon everyone was wearing small stickers promoting Paul Biya's reelection. He'd announced his candidacy only a few days before on the radio, earnestly saying he would heed the people's wishes and reluctantly seek another 7-year term as president. The Peace Corps is officially an “apolitical” organization. They have instructed us not to frequent bars or any other places which lend themselves to heated political discussions. And while I don't participate in the discussions, I'm not about to extricate myself from a group of friends simply because they mention politics. You say the CPDM wants to buy me a beer? I say okay!

The first multiparty elections were held in Cameroon in 1992, pitting the Social Democratic Front's (SDF) John Fru Ndi against the CPDM's Paul Biya. After a shade of controversy and uncertainty, Paul Biya was eventually declared the winner. These results indirectly led to the loss of a Peace Corps Volunteer's house in Bamenda. Paul Michelson, a retired firefighter from Beloit, Wisconsin, was dutifully remaining uninvolved in the political proceedings around him when there was a knock on the door. Some of his friends from town politely asked him if he would step out of his house for a minute. They escorted him to a safe distance, and then struck a match. Paul stood there and watched his house burn to the ground. Not because he was an American or a Peace Corps Volunteer, but because his landlord, it turns out, was a supporter of the candidate who was not supported by these enthusiastic arsonists. (After he finished his service, Paul loved Bamenda and Cameroon so much that he permanently retired here, and opened Paul's Computer Institute, which is probably the best information technology center in the country.) Do I think anything similar could happen this year? Probably not. But we'll find out soon enough.

Rewind to summer. On the 18th of August I found myself at the Douala airport waiting to greet my friends Tom and Jeff. After some frantic e-mails prior to their departure - my pleading them to please, NOT check their bags but carry them on instead, and then Jeff's warning me (from the airport in Amsterdam) that Tom's plane was delayed and he might not make the connection - I could see both of them over the heads of the people standing outside of the baggage claim. It turns out Tom made the connection (accomplishing the following in approximately four minutes - exiting his plane, being misdirected to four gates, pleading on his knees with the airline to let him on board because, you see, his brother was getting married in Yaoundé and he had to make this flight). Sadly, the suitcase my parents sent, which Tom checked in Chicago, was lost somewhere in the void between the Netherlands and Cameroon. And my bottle of pure maple syrup with it.

Over the next three weeks we traveled through all 10 provinces of Cameroon, covering an astonishing distance (from Campo at the southwestern-most point to Maroua in the Extreme North province to Bertoua in the East and Bamenda in the Northwest) which not only resulted in a much better tour than I could have imagined but also reaffirmed my belief that I really hated traveling in this country and, man, did I hope I wouldn't board another bush taxi for a long, long time. The highlight of the trip was making our way to Rhumsiki, west of Maroua and on the border with Nigeria, the sight of some of the most spectacular natural rock formations I've ever seen. The classic way that volunteers (not being tourists, mind you, who prefer air-conditioned four-wheel drives) get to this spot is to take motorcycle taxis along the 48 kilometers of crappy dirt road, an hour-and-a-half excursion that will most likely result in sore buttocks. So we rented the motorcycles and added our own novel option - Tom and Jeff would drive them and I would ride on the back (partly because I don't know how to drive one; mostly because I could get kicked out of Peace Corps for attempting it).

This was an inspiration, and when Tom and I were in Bafut at Greg's house (having left Jeff to find his way to Malabo in Equatorial Guinea, where he had booked his return flight), Greg mentioned that after our service he was planning to ride overland across West Africa on a motorcycle. Count me in, I said. And so our planning began. Meanwhile, Tom and I headed back to Tiko and to hang out with Ryan one last time before returning to the airport. Where my suitcase had miraculously materialized, maple syrup and all. And now I could finally head back to Ndélélé, which was only another 15 or so hours away, by the inevitable bush taxi.

Back in village, I discovered that the other English teacher at my school (who never showed up anyway) had been transferred to Abong-Mbang. This left me by myself to teach five levels, Cinquième (7th grade) through Première (11th grade). Luckily there's no Terminale class this year because of a lack of students. Five levels and nineteen classroom hours per week, but so far so good. It's been surprising to me how easy all this is the second time around, both teaching and living in Cameroon. So easy, in fact, that when I was invited to the doctor's house in Ndélélé and served caterpillars and snails with a big glob of manioc, I happily shoveled it in my mouth. (Take my word for it, though: Caterpillars are not good.)

A few days later I was at my house when a man from the Alliance Voyages bush taxi agency stopped by to tell me I had a letter waiting for me. I wondered what it could be about, since it's rare for someone to send a message by bush taxi, even if it is the best method of reaching Katy and me. But the news was not good. When I opened the envelope I found a printed copy of an email from our Country Director, sent to us by Elaine in Bertoua. The message reported that two days before, on Sunday the 19th of September, fourteen Peace Corps volunteers were riding back from a provincial meeting in Bangem (Southwest province) when the driver lost control of the truck and it flipped over. Twelve volunteers were thrown a distance of forty feet out of the back of the truck. No one was killed. The names were listed, and among the injured were my good friends Ryan, Greg, and Susan. And that was the end of the message. It's hard to describe how difficult it was during these last two weeks to have no outside communication, to have minimal updates on the victims' progress, to not be able to talk to the people I knew. I can only imagine how hard it's been for their families.

When I came to Bertoua three days ago, I got the whole story. Susan had suffered minor scrapes. Ryan had a hip injury, the side of his body covered in a bruise. Greg's ankle had been pinned underneath the truck, the bone crushed. The two guys were already in a South African hospital, lifted away by an air ambulance. Others were, too - Isabelle and Nancy and Erin. Then there was Kristina, one of the most considerate and generous people from my training. Her head had hit a rock, and now she's lying in a coma in South Africa. I've heard that she's making progress, that she is aware enough to squeeze a hand to say “yes” and “no” when asked a question. We're all hoping her progress will continue. Ryan came back to Cameroon two days ago and when I talked to him and Susan last night they both seemed in high spirits. Ryan's return provided hope for everyone.

Transportation in Cameroon has always been a concern among us, and following this accident you could say that morale is pretty low. I'm fairly satisfied with transportation to Ndélélé, though; recently a new company started going there which means more options on the road and more support if anything bad does happen. So after this accident and the approaching election, I'm more grateful than pissed off at my nineteen hours of teaching for lack of keeping busy. I'm hoping that the next bush taxi message will be a harbinger of other news. It doesn't even have to be good news, just OK news.