kar0ling

Twelve hours in transit. Shorter, I suppose, than it might have been, but not at all the day we'd planned. Kara and I began our journey to the north with a bus ride to the south hoping to catch the train for N'Gaoundéré at 18:00. Turns out at Guarantee/Garanti bus lines, there's no guarantee of being on time. Our plan was for all this to occur in one day. Emmanuel, who tried unsuccessfully to book tickets for us a day early, reported the bus should leave at 8:00. Accordingly, we arrived at 7:30. Our tickets (printed out by a real computer on professional-looking ticket paper) read departure 9:00 am. Cheered by the sight of a big coach to travel on, rather than the smaller Coaster buses, we were less happy to see the bus leave the park shortly after 8, but supposed that filling up gas before leaving was a good portent. Unfortunately the bus didn't return to the park until 9:30...but it was washed. Given we're now half an hour behind schedule, one would think loadin...

Elsie took me out to Mbingo for the day to see the scenery, greet some CMFers and see the hospital. Unfortunately, it was rainy and overcast with great, thick, low clouds covering the hills, so the panorama she was so eager to show me was hidden. Nevertheless, the green hills were very impressive. Take away the zinc-roofed, mud-walled houses and one might think it were Ireland. Certainly not the picture of Africa I’ve ever drawn in my mind’s eye. The hospital. I avoid hospitals and doctors as much as possible in Canada, but I was curious to see the place I’d heard so much about here. The most interesting thing about the tour was probably the fact that I wandered around the entire hospital with a guide who is neither medical personnel nor a hospital worker, nor even a resident on the compound. She has been around enough to know what she’s talking about, of course, but I was struck by how utterly forbidden—indeed, impossible—this scenario would be in North America. The place was pretty q...

Cameroonians like to apply the word “prompt” to start times. You’d think I’d have learned already to take it with a grain of salt. It’s not to say I’m always on time; in fact, I can’t say I’ve shown up to many events on time—if any. In my defense, however, I can’t say many events I’ve been to have started on time either. On the way up to Bamenda, the bus stopped in Melong to allow patrons to get out, move around, and buy food from the multitudinous vendors at the roadside selling soya, pistaches, plantains, groundnuts, sweet drinks, bread, pineapples, etc. “15 minutes ONLY!” the driver yelled. Some 30 minutes after the bus had stopped, the driver returned to the vehicle and the wise ones who waited re-embarked the bus. I was not one of the wise ones.

Roadside attractions: a pool table. A framework suggestive of a small roof-shelter surrounded the entertainment zone but no roof was in evidence. A number of players were assembled, though, and enjoying a good game of billiards.

In the taxi ride back from Mbingo the other day, the radio was on. A number of panellists were discussing what it takes to be successful. It was a rather apposite discussion given the conversation Elsie had just had with the man next to her in the backseat. This man felt Cameroonian university graduates weren’t doing enough to help their countrymen. Some of the commentators made wise remarks, others were not so helpful. One woman dismissed a fellow critic’s remark as “bush folly,” an insult which says a lot about people’s perspectives. She followed up with the very insightful analogy: “If you’re a lizard in Africa, don’t expect to be a crocodile in America.” In other words, changing your exterior circumstances doesn’t change who you are. It’s good advice, not only for Africans who think life will be perfect in North America, but also for North Americans who think “becoming a missionary” will make them into “super Christians.”

There is a reason “bush taxi” is uttered with some reverence. After freshening up somewhat in Kumba, rectifying one misunderstanding but continuing to receive bad news about likely attendance for our meeting, we nevertheless set out for Ekondo Titi by bush taxi. The taxi park at Mbonge road was an experience in and of itself. Crowds converged upon the taxi as we got out, everyone eager to help the white man. “Welcome to our country!” “How long have you been here?” (In response to the latter, another man retorted, referring to Lisa’s Oroko Bible translation t-shirt, “Look at her shirt dummy; she’s part of the translation project -- she's been here 10 years!”) The car to Bekondo, loading and nearly ready to leave, hailed us, but we turned them aside and went to purchase our tickets to ET. Filling #2 and #3 place on the list, we sat down to wait for the car to fill. Four passengers in a 2-door car is not good enough, no; a full car has 4 in the back, 4 (including driver) in front. Chi...

I understand now why the missionaries all own private vehicles. The savings cannot possibly outweigh the frustrations of public transport. In the past few days I have experienced a variety of modes and journeys on public transportation. It all started in Mutengene. Shortly after arriving in the taxi park we were loaded onto a bus (a 15-passenger van-type affair) in which we sat and sweated for about an hour and a half before leaving. Lisa was trying to call the members of the literacy committee with whom we were supposed to be meeting in Ekondo Titi, thus the reason for our trip. Time passed quickly in the red bus called Symbol and before I knew it the bus was loaded—3 people on the benches and not 1 but 2 people on the jump seats. A vehicle which would hold 15 people in North America was packed with 20 people, roof piled high with luggage of all shapes and sizes including a bedframe loaded on top. Across the road was a bus called Patience, which I fancied an inauspicious name for a tr...

On the outskirts of the market, by the taxi park in Ekondo Titi, there was a shop selling TVs on one side of the street and a bunch of treadle sewing machines for sale on the other. Close to Mbouda on the way to Bamenda, I saw mansion after mansion after mansion, with little mud-brick huts scattered between. Landlines never really became available to the common man in Cameroon, but now everyone has a cellphone equipped with the latest gadgets.

Jouncing through the pitted roads of Bamenda in a taxi, the driver made an awkward U-turn after a passing motorist indicated an underinflated tire. This gave me the opportunity to observe a shiny new Grand Vitara with Manitoba plates pass by. Wait…… MANITOBA PLATES!?!?!?! It’s a mystery.

How many 6-year-olds are excited to get a box of nails and a jar of Calve mayonnaise for their birthday? How many birthday parties are conducted in 3 languages: Cameroonian English (distinct from standard Canadian English), French and Spanish? And would you believe the kid that won musical chairs had her 2-year-old brother tied to her back until the last round?

Joe, one of the Oroko translators and literacy committee members, finished seminary recently and was being ordained as a minister in the Presbyterian Church in Cameroon, so everyone from our team except Becky and “the kids” (Kenneth and Laura) were present for his big day in early December. There were a total of about 8 seminarians to sanction at the service held in the large Presbyterian Church in Kumba. An impressive building with a soaring ceiling (topped, as usual, with the ubiquitous “zinc”), it had painted white and green cement walls with decorative square “vents” cut in, louvered windows at eye level, and high windows of “stained glass” (solid panes of green, red, yellow: the colours of Cameroon’s flag). Cloth lilies were tied to supporting poles for decoration. The illuminated cross at the front of the church comprised four long fluorescent light bulbs. A bolt of the official patterned PCC cloth decorated the wall behind the altar while flashing Christmas lights adorned either...

Lost: Mount Cameroon remains as elusive as ever in Limbe; its broad base lying with its head stolidly in the clouds. Only the jagged-toothed line of old lava flows already covered in lush green growth is visible before the sky envelops the mountain’s peak. In short, still no sign of the top. Found: The mysterious Ferdinand Po (island of Equatorial Guinea), apparently visible from Limbe, also long sought after, appeared to my wondering eyes, looming large and shadowlike ABOVE the cloud bank just beyond the springform-cake-pan rocky islets close to the shoreline. At last located, Bioko (formerly Ferdinand Po) remains mysterious, for it is there one day and gone the next; in a completely different position relative to landmarks depending on your vantage point; and offers not a single glow to the dark night despite being home to over 30,000 people.

The funny thing about the riot destruction (from back in February) is that unless you knew what the places looked like before--short of the scorch-marks--it’s hard to tell which heaps of rubble are the result of strike damage and which are building projects. The brasseries in Kumba bore obvious marks of riot damage, but the jumble of concrete blocks next to the post office was probably the makings of an add-on wing. The gutted, roofless government offices right by the police station bear scorch marks, but barring the black marks, it’s a fairly ordinary sight. Walls sans roofs are common enough that one doesn’t necessarily think anything upon spying them along the road.

As a group of Cameroonian adolescent girls at Seme Beach in Limbe passed by I caught snatches of their conversation. “Hunh,” I thought to myself, “that sounded like German.” “Don’t jump to conclusions, Karla,” I quickly retorted. “They’re probably speaking a local dialect with gutturals and sibilants like German.” Then another chattering girl breezed past, her words quite distinct: “Ich weiss nicht,” removing all doubt as to what language they were speaking. I know Cameroon was under the Germans for a good part of their colonial history, but it still wasn’t something I was expecting to hear.

Prior to February, when I travelled out of the village for a few days, Mike would always make sure I had my passport. Frankly, I thought it a bit strange given that I have a Cameroonian ID; I would’ve thought it preferable to leave the passport at home where I cannot be relieved of it by unscrupulous souls. The reason, Mike explained, that they always take passports along when they leave the village for any length of time, is that you want to be ready to flee the country should the need arise. Seemed kind of alarmist to me at the time. Then the taxi strike happened. I understand now, and don’t question when exhorted to bring my passport when leaving the village.

Limbe has garbage cans! Wow! Seriously, this is an exciting thing, to find not only a garbage can in both the room and bathroom at the Miramar (itself, a rare enough occurrence) but also public garbage cans outside on the grounds. Wonderful! Then, even more miraculous, a large garbage receptacle out on the street in town. I really don’t make it a goal to produce so much refuse—quite the opposite—but after 8 months of not being able to find a place to throw out any small piece of garbage ever (e.g. a napkin, a Kleenex, a banana peel, a plastic bag that formerly held groundnuts), it’s wonderful to have a third option to littering or carrying it home with me.