Frozen Reflections

My time in Africa has been an incredible experience, one of many highs. When convincing myself to undertake this blog, I always maintained I would try to keep things light, and focus on the positive things I saw and encountered. There were many of these. I wanted to describe a pleasing painting, rather than highlight it's cracks. I hoped the blog would be enjoyed by at least one other person, so as to increase it's value from solely being a means for my own recollections to something more. Maybe it has given you some sort of insight to African life, or even acted as reminder for your own personal experiences of the "Dark continent". Either way, I hope you have enjoyed it.

Having said all this, Africa, like anywhere else, has it's own set of problems, ones which are heavily reported, often giving an almost unfair image of the continent and it's people. It is very different to the western world, though outwardly this might not always seem the case. Things here take time, and patience is imperative, needing to go at the top of any packing list. Life, though, is harder and goes by quicker- events such as births, deaths and marriages happen earlier in life, and seem to occur with greater frequency.

Africa is, at times, a riddle, a mixture of contradictions. A Cameroonian once told me that western concepts remain incompatible to ancient African cultures, that continue to resonate well into the 21st century. At times, it is hard to argue with such a belief. In a country where religion continues to dominate, people are conscious of the real threat of serious crime, and the ineffectiveness of the government and their abilities to deal with such problems. People are very discontented with the political situation. Witchcraft also continues to pervade society despite this religious spirituality that is almost palpable.

People declare that countries such as Cameroon are less developed. They lag behind us. This may be true in a technological and industrial sense. However, such advancements come at a price. You need to travel to countries like Cameroon, to realise what other places around the world are losing. In Africa, there is a spontaneity , strong social ties, a happy go lucky approach, an acceptance of things that can't be changed. There is uninhibited music and dance.

At times, Africa will infuriate you, and inspire you in equal measure. Yet, it is a place that continues to draw people back time and time again.

For my part, I'm left with my own feelings of ambivalence, and contradiction. In a trivial day to day sense, I can say I will miss sleeping under a mosquito net, but not the mosquitoes. I will miss reading by enforced candlelight, but not the power cuts that led to it. Perhaps such thoughts are more appropriate a souvenier than any tangible good I have could have purchased from a gift shop.

In their entirety, I will miss the morning walks, the welcomes of strangers, the views of the mountain, my flip flops, the household of Namondo, the children at school, and the crickets at night-time. I could go on. I can't say I will miss the rubbish, the (at times) sweltering heat, or those bells!

Now, I find myself back in Scotland, typing out the final words of my final entries, in an Edinburgh city that looks very dull, and is very cold. My hands are literally shaking as I press the keys. Outside, I can see a freezing fog that seems unable to move anywhere. It envelopes all the well wrapped Xmas shoppers hurrying past me.

Africa seems like a very long way away indeed. Almost from a different time.

And so it is that I must be going. My diary comes to an end, just as the memories begin. All that remains is for the man from Buea to beep you one last time, wishing you all a very good night.

Oh, and Merry Christmas and a Wonderful 2010!

JRX

Fast Car

Just over two hours later, the phone wakes me from my slumber. George can fit me in his early run after all. I have to be ready at 4.30am. Such is Africa. If I'd booked my connection in fine detail a week ago, it probably wouldn't have happened. My final two goodbyes are said to C and S. It's a shame to be going, but my time is up, and when you gotta go....

Driving down in the dark, I pass all the sights that have become so familiar: Soppo town, the stadium, UAC nursery, Elegance dry cleaners, and the TIM building. The streets are empty, save for the lines of unused taxis on either side of the road, their owners still in slumber. As we make it down to the village of Mutingini, the workers are already starting to appear from the gloom. Just time for two more signs: "Technical Solutions- An End To The Madness" and "No Need for Extraction Dental Clinic". Presumably only when there isn't actually a need for one.

We speed on towards the twinkling lights of the Douala metropolis. In the distance, just offshore, a furious electrical storm charges the night sky. The lightning is fierce and frequent, but cloud cover distorts it's clarity, providing a sort of pearl lightbulb effect. We make one brief stop to bribe a policeman at his checkpoint simply to let us pass. George takes it all very well. I'm sure he's very used to it by now He makes a joke about a policeman and a crocodile, which everyone else appreciates very much. It's all very cosy in the car. The man sharing the front seat puts his around me (purely for spacial reasons!) and George starts calling me Johnny. I feel obliged to call him Georgey.

We enter Douala outskirts. For some reason, the roadside surface begins to get much worse. It was fine up until this point, apart from the copious amounts of speedbumps. We are forced to swerve towards the oncoming traffic to avoid the very large ones, but this seems common practice.

Georgey has been a real help today. Things would have been a lot trickier without his assistance. His final help is to pass me over to one of his friends, a man wearing a Paul Biya scarf. "Do you see the resemblance? This man is my father", he tells me as he pulls the scarf up to his face to show me the alleged similarity. He picks up my bag and shows me to my taxi. "Have a nice life" he exclaims, and the car pulls away. First and last impressions matter most, though quantifiabley, they shouldn't be any different to any other. My first and last impressions of Cameroon have been really good- helped by someone from the airport, and ultimately, back to it.

The airport itself is a very unpleasant looking place. It's a grubby concrete building, all linear and perpendicular. It would fit into "The Last King of Scotland" perfectly. After a long wait for check in to open, I finally make it through the whole process, passing a small row of shacks which constitute the souvenier shops. Forget duty free here. I'll have to get my Toblerone elsewhere.

At the final baggage check before the gate opens the man responsible for riffling through my bag sparks up a conversation as he does so. Turns out he formerly worked on biological project funded through one of Prince Charles' foundations. He also tells me a variety of routes for walking up and down the mountain, before finally confiscating my fresh bread. "Why?" I enquire. I'm informed that I potentially could have laced it with poison and an on board suicide would be "too much publicity". Most of the staff at the airport have been very approachable, and it would be good to fly them to other airports around the world to teach customer service skills. New York for example.

My time in Africa is coming to an end. I board the plane that will take me on to Kenya, before my final flight to a UK in the depths of winter, and the Christmas rush. Due to the lights going off on Nairobi airport's runway (and nobody seemingly able to turn them back on), I have enough time in my six hour delay to get mixed up with a Jehovah Witness convention, as well as a non-denominational one. Kenya is definitely the place to be for such things. One of the non-denoms is good enough to sing me a little ditty, and is rewarded with my copy of National Geographic. I also chat to a young bunch of Australians flying back to Sydney after a boozy fortnight in Kenya (one in a wheel chair with a broken foot to prove it), and two middle aged Spanish sisters fresh from their own charitable convention in Ethiopia, who are flying back to Columbia.

Through the swelling mass of delayed passengers, boozers and preachers all together, I can't help but notice newly deified Joanna Lumley and a group of men, who look suspiciously like TV camera crew. I resist the urge to scream "Oi Patsy, give us a fag!" Famous people always look considerably smaller than you imagine them to be.

My flight eventually leaves the ground. Thankfully, there are three spare seats in my row, and the announcement that London is not far away gets mentioned just as I wake up in time for breakfast.

That's it!



"You've got a fast car,I wanna a ticket to anywhere,
Maybe we make a deal,
Maybe together we can get somewhere,
Any place is better
Starting from zero, got nothing to lose,
Maybe we'll make something,
Me, myself, I've got nothing to prove"

TC

Peace. Work. Fatherland.

My last full day goes by in a flash, and amidst all the Christmas carols, I hear John Denver's "Leaving on a jet plane" as I begin to pack my bag. It's one of travelling's great mysteries that however much you leave behind or give away, the bag never seems to get any lighter or easier to pack.

Today becomes a day of serendipity. I meet the director of UAC at the office, and he is very gracious in his goodbye, intent on giving me some sort of gift for my leaving. I also meet the German volunteers and my football obsessive friend Stephen, bidding them all a fond farewell. No sign of Shun. He's probably arranging those Coi carp and the ornamental oriental bridge I mentioned earlier. His leaving present was to find the "London Underground"song on the web and play it to me in the cybercafe. It's an alternative to "Going Underground", but careful playing it if the kids are around!

Stopping at an ATM it strikes me that these places are one of the few places around the world where there is usually air-conditioning, even if the bank itself doesn't have it. If I had realised this earlier, I quite possibly would have been here EVERY day between the hours of 12PM AND AND 5PM. I wait behind a very resplendent looking chief with the customary brown skull cap and cowry shell decoration. He's a chatty man, who waits an age for the money to arrive through the dispenser- I swear some body must be behind the screen physically counting it all. I realise just how hot and sweaty things are in this part of the world as I step back outside, after the cool, dry interior of the teller building.

Things have been very quiet on the Mickey front recently. There has been an end to hostilities for quite a while. An unspoken truce if you like. I wondered if Mickey was planning one big final assault before I left, the lull being the calm before the storm. Instead, he seems content carving his chalk board up with the big machete, and kicking me on the ankle on the way out the door. He has acquired a "heavy" though, whose naturally older and bigger than he is. His name is Raymond, but this could be an alias.

I seek refuge in "Coconut Island" for a final sunset beer. Sitting in the pub, I'd like to say the view of the surrounding flat lands is spectacular, but cloud and haze obscures the plain. I do get a great sight of people walking to and from town- all the sellers with their corn and plantains; the workers with their firewood and yams; the youngsters dressed up in their best jeans and dresses.

Last night there was an impressive streak of fire all along the side of the mountain as they burnt a new path for the impending tourist season. I had imagined I would be running up a similar path the next time I came to Buea. I can't say I imagined teaching here instead, but such is life. The great unknown.

Over a rich dinner of grilled fish, plantains (starting to taste like boiled potatoes), some red sauce and some green sauce, I ask C if it will be possible to get to bed early. "No problem" she assures me. We visit the Internet to dispatch some more emails to her former guests. Taking dictation from C is a unique experience. Twenty minutes after the place should have shut, I'm still hammering away on the keyboard. We leave to get a final beer to commemorate my departure. All other things complete, we finally turn our attentions to getting my taxi organised for my early exit tomorrow. Stumbling around a neighbourhood in the dark, we attempt to locate a man by the name of George. C informs me he is a "very nice boy". Finally finding his house and waking him up, it is determined there is no room for me in the early run to Doula. The taxi must now be left to chance. A few household goodbyes are finally said, and I crawl into bed. It is already midnight.

Top 5 Bars Of The Trip

1. Coconut Island - Great views and friendly vibe.

2. No Name Bar - Sheer volume of available soccer on the TV.

3. Freeze - Breezy chic.

4. C's cousin's place- He gave me carryouts with no bottle deposit.

5. Small Buea- City centre location and porcupine kebabs.

Books Read:

"Importance of Being Ernest" ( as dry as the Sahara);

"Feet In The Clouds" ( incredible accounts of human endurance);

"The Celestine Prophecy" ( a modal for life);

"Life Of Pi" (a lion, boy, tiger, Orangutan, Zebra and Hyena all in one life raft- enough said);

"Memoirs Of A Geisha" (by a man who writes as a woman thinks);

"Drowning Ruth" (psychological page turner)

Feet In The Clouds

I have only fleetingly mentioned the monster that lurks in these here parts- The Mount Cameroon Race Of Hope. This internationally reknown mountain race is certainly not for the fainthearted. It is a heart breaking, ball busting, leg wobbling run 31 kilometres in distance, with an ascent, and then descent, of two miles in height. All you have to do is run the race from the city, up to the mountain summit and back down again, as quickly as possible.

I was lucky to see the race, purely by chance, the last time I was in Buea. We caught the leading runners coming home. The first one crossed the line, as third place collapsed a distance behind him. Second (close by, turned around to see this) went back and lifted him up with the aid of fourth, who chose not to run by. All three runners crossed the line together. It was a real moment of sporting chivalry, and something to behold. The prize money here is by no means insignificant to most of the African runners attempting to win the race.

Thinking about my experiences in Cameroon, I contemplated two everyday considerations ingrained in the local Buea psyche- The Race of Hope and religion. They reminded me of something I first heard many years ago. I think the words encapsulate the town perfectly.

Runner, talking to a crowd, after a race, many years ago:

"You came to see a race today. See someone win. Happened to be me. But I want you to do more than just watch a race. I want you to take part in it.

I want to compare faith to running in a race. It's hard. It requires concentration of will, energy of soul. You experience elation when the winner breaks the tape -- 'specially if you've got a bet on it. But how long does that last? You go home. Maybe your dinner's burnt. Maybe,you haven't got a job. So who am I to say, "believe, have faith," in the face of life's realities?

I would like to give you something more permanent, but I can only point the way. I have no formula for winning the race. Everyone runs in her own way, or his own way.

And where does the power come from to see the race to its end? From within."

Mogyamo Express

I haven't seen a huge amount of Cameroon's atttractions since I arrived here two months ago. We decide to rectify that somewhat by visiting Lake Kumba today. It's a minibus ride of just over an hour along exceptionally good roads. These roads clearly bring out the worst in drivers though, and the entire stretch is infamous for being something of a black spot. Indeed, C shows me the very corner one of her husbands was killed several years ago. We pass through several towns on the way to Kumba. They are all more traditional looking than Buea City, certainly all appear to have a slower pace of life. There are sheets and blankets sitting everywhere along the highway, all a sort of reddish brown. I later learn that this is Cocoa drying in the afternoon sun.

The first thing that strikes me when we enter Kumba is the brown mud dust that veils every single thing in the area- cars, houses, tourists, signs. This effect continues as we make our way out of the town centre in a taxi going to the lakeside. The road taking us to the lake is in complete disrepair, and our 15 year old Toyota is simply no match. Instead we walk the last stretch of the road through dense vegetation, listening to the sound of a nearby waterfall. Thankfully, the surrounding foliage is a fantastic sunscreen, protecting us from a fierce glow.

We round a corner and are afforded a quite brilliant view of the lake. I'm quite lucky as, gazing at the new scenary, I fail to notice a medium size green snake sunning itself on the track. Luckily, it slithers off before I have a chance to step on it and get bitten. All snakes in Cameroon are poisonous I am informed. I have no desire to test this theory out. We can just make out the other side of the lake through the haze, and a local african long boat is making its way off into the distance carrying villagers back home. These are the types of views that a camera will never do full justice to, but you always snap anyway in the hope that you might just get lucky. A sign says "Swim at your own risk- no lifeguards", but this clearly fails to mention the crocodiles.

We don't stay too long as we still have the journey back to make, and the day is wearing on. We arrive back at the bustling bus park, where traders are arguing over any available taxi to transport their goods-taxis appear in short supply in Kumba. We hop on our minibus, complete with a large motorbike and many sacks of food and travel bags on the roof rack. We take advantage of the local sellers, buying some food. I sit there with some boiled peanuts on my lap, with something that resembles a banana (plantain), but doesn't taste like one, and something that resembles a cooked plum (god knows), but doesn't taste like one. Yes, things in Africa are very different. Take nothing for granted!

We ultimately wait almost two hours in the vehicle for it to fill up, and several people consider a mutiny. Today is hot and stuffy and this weather is highly conducive in making people fractious. After several false alarms, we finally get going, making our way homeward. We pass the scene of an accident in the dark, involving a lorry and a car. There are no flames, but the smell of burning engines hangs very heavily in the air. No travel seat is ever empty in Africa, and where there should be three people, there will normally be four. Even with the windows open, the air feels very hot and very uncomfortable. I am pretty pleased when we make it back to Buea's bus park- Mile 17. Cooler fresh air is a perfect tonic.

Very little is done tonight other than eating dinner, and a bit of a reading. As I lay in bed, I make out the usual howling and barking of the town's population of dogs, who roam the streets at night time. Someone (perhaps a child) playfully tinkles the churchbell, though thankfully no more than that. It will be heard in all it's full glory soon enough.

Johnson's Last Stand

There is a "black removal" celebration today. This get together commemerates the end of the official mourning period for a deceased one. The close relatives of the dead man still seem to be greatly affected by their loss, but bravely attempt to appear outwardly stoic.

We sit inside and, once again, are treated to great hospitality. I converse with the pastor and some older men about the world cup draw. The memories of Cameroon's efforts during the 1990 finals are still very vivid in the this country, and people fondly remember the infamous win over Argentina.

We don't stay very long, retracing our steps back along the road to the house before hailing a taxi. As we drive off, I can still make out the sound of a group of people singing in the garden area of the house we have just left. I have been most fortunate to have been involved in so many cultural and family orientated events. It has given me such a glimpse into everyday life, and such experiences are usually elusive to the tourist simply passing through.

Our evening is spent with a few beers recalling our recent experiences, and a young man from a neighbouring house gives us an interesting display of local dancing. Amongst other things, C informs me that a couple of weeks ago, there was free beer and food in the Presbyterian church. The main reason for this was a celebration of the church breaking away from another splinter of christianity. Now that she mentions it, I do recall (amongst the singing) a real cacophony of noise eminating from the building. People were really enjoying themselves. I think I have discovered a solution to the plummeting numbers in Scotland's churches. Watch this space...

Grace and Serenity

It's a peaceful day today in Buea Town, Cameroon. I take a stroll through town for the usual weekend activities. C and I visit C's brother and sister in-law, fortuitously getting a lift there by one of the family members. The hospitality today is of the usual high standard, getting fed and watered as soon as we arrive. C's brother is a government official, and also appears to be a chief of some description. His wife is a teacher trainer in the city, and kindly invited me to watch her training the students. I had to decline due to a distinct lack of time. Children here are very subservient to adults. It is common practice to simply tell a child to get you something, or do something else for you, even if they are household residents whom you have never met.

We watch a rather funny Ghanaian film, which is pretty much a moral about the effects of money. African films from Nigeria and Ghana dominate the market in Cameroon. I hardly seen anybody watching a western films since I came. It has to be said that the African films (and TV) is decidedly ropey in terms of editing, producing and acting, but they often prove to be surprisingly watchable. Music plays pretty much throughout the movies, and this films portrays a labourer pretending to be a US Marine officer simply to deceive an uppity lady.

We don't get to see the end of the action. Instead, we are off to see a nearby neighbour who has a bereavement get together today. We receive even more generous hospitality there ( chicken again!) , but we do not linger. It is my farewell meal tonight and Stephen, my money exchanger, is invited up to the house for the celebrations. Stephen is a Manchester United obsessive, who proudly tells me that Nigeria has more MU fans than any other country in the world. After a fine meal and a few drinks ( is red wine and cola wrong?), we trot off to the bar with no name to listen to exceptionally loud music, before it's back off to the house for a finish.