Beeping from Beau

Frozen Reflections

2009-12-11T06:13:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-10T07:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-09T06:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-08T01:29:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-07T02:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-06T02:56:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-05T07:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Don't Make...... Noise

2009-12-04T03:44:00.000-08:00

Washing day today. Whenever I'm in far flung places with few appliances, I always say I will not take such things for granted when I return back home, but I always do. My handwashing skills could hardly be in the "world class" category, and I can't help feeling my "washed" clothes look about as dirty as when I put them in the bucket. Shower gel is the new fabric softener. Fact.

I haven't mentioned the weather changes that have occurred recently. Just over a fortnight ago, the rainfall sharply decreased, and we had a week of grey weather, where it always looked like it might rain, but never did. Both temperature and humidity have continued to increase, with the weather over the last 10 days or so being the weather I very much recollect from my last time in West Africa- at times, stifling. There hasn't been a drop of rain for some time, and to be frank, I think I have timed my trip here pretty well.

Coming into town this evening I can't help noticing the market area, which constitutes a significant part of the town, has completely disappeared. It is just like a small village being obliterated from the map. All that remains is the ubiquitous piles of rubbish (plastic every time) everywhere, and a few souls wandering around the area looking decidedly lost. The authorities have been recently landscaping an area on the town's outskirts, where the new market will go. There was a hive of activity this morning. I thought this was just people surveying the area and choosing their plots, not realising how imminent the move actually was. Low and behold! If the whole thing hasn't moved in the space of a day trip to the city.

Talk in the bars tonight does not revolve around the new market, however. Instead, it is all about the World Cup draw. I watch events unfold in the very noisy TV room of a local bar. During the draw, there is an awful lot of jumping up and down, shouting, and gesticulating from a group of men within a very close proximately of one another. I can't help imagining I'm back in the classroom. The gods are not overly kind to Cameroon, but it certainly could be a lot worse: Netherlands, Japan, Denmark, Cameroon. England are on easy street. Germany or Oz, if they make the second round. I like the draw method giving each group a worldwide flavour. Haile Gebrselassie remains a class act and Beckham's hair continues to run riot. Some things never change.

I stay slightly longer than planned and when I get back, C tells me the "marriage" is over. Of course, it's just bravado and she will come round.. eventually.

I Drink It For The Quinine

2009-12-03T04:49:00.000-08:00

OK. This is it. It's the last day of school today. I make my final walk from the city, past the banana plantations, into the countryside. Overhead, there is the awesome sight of two bright yellow planes undertaking an impressive aeronautical show. It appears as if they are from another era- they are bi-planes. The plane's main function is to spray the crops, but if they tried this now, half the insecticide would end up back in the aircraft. The things you see on the way to work...

I approach school as two pupils come towards me, taking a break between exams. I tell them we will play a game today, if there is time. "Thank God!", one girls says, almost burying her head in her hands. The exams must be fraying her 10 year old nerves.

We do indeed play a game today, right at the end of the day- Preposition Bingo. It's grand that most of the kids understand the concept of the game, though at least one of the children has already filled her board, even though only one word has been pulled from the "magic box". The results are ever so slightly manufactured to ensure we have at least one successfully completed card. I'm sure that you'll agree the difference between "in" and "on" is very minimal- only one minuscule letter.

The last snaps are taken, and the goodbyes are said. As I pass through the school gates, I'm still laughing at how the children celebrate at any opportunity. Many a time I told one or two pupils they had the right answer. These children started singing dancing,and waving their arms about, and this just seems to set everybody off. It's a sort of contagious abandonment, as if they just been told they've won the rollover lottery on their birthday. It is, it has to be said, often chaotic, and usually funnier in hindsight. I'm certainly chuckling about it all now.

The local orphanage in the Bokova is celebrating it's first anniversary today. It's a European funded initiative, with strong Dutch links. There are a couple of money men here from Holland to mark this auspicious occasion, as well as the usual troupe of government officials. I somehow manage to miss the bus for the start of the event, instead taking a bus back into town. This one has the wife of UAC director, and she takes me to her house in order to prepare herself. I manage just over an hour of "The World Is Not Enough", thus avoiding a number of speeches. We arrive just as the oration reaches it conclusion. The usual food and drink is generously laid on for all guests, with the added bonus of roast potatoes and fried chicken! This is the place to be. I've almost exclusively eaten fish since I arrived here. 54 days ago. I don't really like fish.

Like any self respecting adult, I dart off to play "Pairs on Wheels" with the children, this time avoiding networking with people I'll never see again. This afternoon has been about avoidance. I do have an interesting conversation with one of the dutchies. He works all over Africa, and will fly out to South Africa for the entire World Cup. His plan is to set up big TV screens in rural areas so local children can watch all the action. What a great venture.

All things wrapped up at the orphanage, it's back to Moliko to chat with the UAC director about one or two things. Whilst I wait for him, his daughter thrusts a book in my face, saying: "Uncle, read for me!" It's the same book I read during break the other day: "Winnie the Pooh, and Tigger Too"! It's starting to follow me about. The young girl tells me about some weird American Disney film, where there is no Christopher Robin, and Pooh wears a cap. I tell her she must have dreamt the entire thing.

The taxi ride home is highly comical, with a roguish driver attempting to over charge all those who enter. One guy wearing a cap enters, and, hearing the price, replies: "No problem. Nine years I've been waiting for my brother to buy me a car. I'd have given you a thousand Francs." Now that's the way to deal with such characters.

You'll Laugh Until You Sleep On The Floor

2009-12-02T04:28:00.000-08:00

My penultimate day commences by finishing both maps I have been working on for sometime. I have a break-time chat with Mr Nduka, who is bizarrely dressed in some sort of mad scientist's overcoat. He says he will put my maps on the wall. Hopefully the kids won't look too hard at the Lake Victoria area- long story.

There's still enough time to get through an impromptu reading class using "Winnie the Pooh, and Tigger Too" before classes recommence. The senior classes have began their exams so no chance of working with them today. Instead, Shun, the young woodwork teacher, and myself nobly battle an African continent jigsaw puzzle, which is surprisingly difficult. The woodwork shop has been a great place for contemplation, and the occasional lesson. The teacher has been very good company, and has taken to playing some great African music, when not taking lessons.

Accompanied by Shun, I make my way to the local countryside bar- "The Tickled Trout." No, it's not really called that, but it should be. We have a very good chat about things Japanese as well as his travels. He speaks very good french, having studied it at university, and then lived in Paris. He's been good fun since he arrived. He leaves just after new year, telling me that avoiding work is "just not possible anymore."

The BBC World Service is very good tonight. Interesting articles include: Cairo's very controversial shift to a single, syncronised radio transmission through the speakers of all the city's minarets- only one person will call the entire city now, cutting down on conflicting calls and, bluntly put, woeful singing; the global tightening of Scottish whisky production- where this leaves "Jocker" Whisky remains unclear; a Lincoln University in the U.S.A refusing to issue academic qualifications to successful students who have a fat index measurement of more than 30.

Bless You Upside Down And Inside Out

2009-12-01T03:39:00.000-08:00

At school bright and early today. The youngsters have their six weekly exams in the next day or two, so it is most definitely a case of revising all the geography we have studied in the last few weeks. I receive a range of answers to a range of questions. It's quite satisfying to hear a lot of good answers, but there's also some pretty interesting ones thrown in there too. "What's a galaxy?" I demand to know. One girl stands up: "Uncle, Uncle, It's a football team."

It's dominoes at break followed by an hour with Etonde. I get a few photos of the senior class 6 children and teachers for good measure. The kids are delighted at being "snapped" and are always keen to see the results. Whenever they see the camera (even when surreptitiously) drawn from my bag, a whole bunch of kids appear, complete with huge grins on their faces. It's a far cry from the days when African people firmly believed that the white photographer was stealing their souls.

I make the last SOW (School on Wheels) today. It turns out to be Bonakanda for the first time since I arrived. It's an end of the road town, just before you start going upwards instead of along. Judging by the state of the tiny village hall, I don't think anyone's been in it since it was built. The light streaming through the cracks in the wooden walls highlights a veil of dust, which conveniently forms a sort of cushion. The turnout today is good, though the children are quite challenging. Education levels here appear well down even compared to the other nearby local villages nearer the school and the city. Times tables and a spot of skipping completed, we're off along Cameroon's bumpiest road.

We stop to pick up a young crippled man with a rather large stick, who's off to the disabled craft evening in the village of Bokova. The people make goods tonight and then sell at the market to generate an income. It's a great idea. An old man hopes on next with a sack bag. He's also accompanied by the most horrendous stink. It really is bad. I imagine that this is what Beelzebub's jockstrap must smell like. "What's in the bag?", I ask him with a slight feeling of trepadation. "It's fowl", he tell me through a big grin, to which I naturally reply: "It most certainly is." Over his shoulder, Maggi, one of the German volunteers (and vegetarian), is almost wretching out of the window. Thankfully he gets out pretty soon afterwards, and, as a means of celebration, Shun sings me the "London Underground Song". It seems to be a bit of a cult comedy tune, and he encourages me to look it up on Youtube sometime. I think Shun has a bit of a fetish for the London tube.

The night streets are packed as we drive up the main drag towards Town. Several days are market day, but not every day. This evening seems unusually busy, with a huge crowd of buyers and sellers. Apart from food, the vast majority of goods are second hand clothes- hats, T-shirts, jeans. Judging by the brand names, the goods are either American in origin, or more probably British. How and in what capacity such a huge amount of goods arrive in Cameroon remains a big mystery. All other consumables are clearly Chinese.

An African leader recently announced that: "China gives Africa what Africa needs". Well, if Africa needs pencils that won't sharpen and torches that won't turn off, then so be it. The good are such poor quality, but their price allows many people many things that I imagine were previously beyond their means.

I walk back along the road in the failing light towards my house, hearing my first Xmas carol. Is it really December already? One certainty is that the carol is the first of many. Will I get Mariah Carey and Wham before I leave? Xmas is big here.

We were supposed to be visiting Catherine's son-in law this evening, but by the time everybody has eaten, it's pretty late. It's an unfortunate thing that in a place where many household chores are still manual- no washing machines, hoovers, or George Foremans- the local food takes an age to prepare. Often food needs to be washed, dried, ground, and then cooked. Let me assure you it's not the fellows accomplishing the endless domestic chores- they all seem to be sitting in the pub watching the Champion's League.

Sweet Baby, Baby, Baby!!

2009-11-30T07:45:00.000-08:00

Today ends up being a bit of a prep day for the last week of school- I have decided to finish on Thursday. This gives me a bit of time to take in a few of the local sights. I had hoped to go to Korup or Waza National Park, but time will not be sufficient.

There's no SOW today due to Bitingini kids' lack of attendance. The UAC co-ordinator visits the village to discuss the problem with the new Chief. Instead, I wander off to the "Cyberspace", finally dragging myself off after dark. I make it back home for my usual cold bucket shower and a bite to eat.

The evening is finished by C and I exchanging ghost stories. She has a couple of good ones, most notably one where she was followed by two phantom wood collectors in the forest. My main one is the Spine chilling tale of a truckload of tourists and a disturbed Baobab tree in Western Africa. A very true story I can assure you. If you haven't heard it yet, I'll need to bore you with it next time I see you.

Random local word or saying of the day: "Masah."

Translation: "Mr."

Sweet Surrender

2009-11-29T06:36:00.000-08:00

Arriving back at Mile 17 bus station in Buea almost marks the end of our journey. We negotiate the small matter of a taxi up to Town, just as day is breaking. It's with great satisfaction that I crawl into bed for a few hours rest, and I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

Four hours later, I feel like a new man. Sunday is surely a day of rest today, and after a leisurely breakfast, I stroll down to the Town for some writing and S Sports on the TV- good to see you again Mr Gary Bailey. It's been a few years. I meet Dennis, a Cameroon man, now residing in Leicester. Despite being a Chelsea season ticket holder, he's good value and it's a bit strange talking to someone else living in the UK. I haven't spoken to anyone else from HQ since I arrived here. In between whoops of delight as Chelsea crush Arsenal (it must be wintertime), he lets me know that he is married to the daughter of the former Cameroon Prime Minister, or whatnot, by the name of Achilly Achoo. I might be wrong, but surely that name is completely ficticious!

Back up at the house for dinner, C and I discuss the events of the last two days. I learn that the chief was paid a considerable sum for the bride's hand (she's not even his daughter). Even the bride was paid a considerable sum for the bride's hand- it's the groom who paid her too! The chief also received some palm nut oil, 10 crates of beer, and some vegetables. I haven't even mentioned the groom's name- John Kennedy, an incredibly friendly chap, who, for the record, does not have the middle name of Fitzgerald.

I also find out the name of the singer who was played on a continual loop all of last night. I will never ever forget that voice. She is a Nigerian woman called Agatha Moses. In a perverse sort of way, I found myself humming her music today. However, this statement is not going to stop me locating her house, playing a trumpet under her window, whilst somehow, concurrently rattling her window with a stick. In the morning, she will be fed broken JJ records for breakfast. As C so aptly put it this evening: "The trip back was a sort of punishment."

Set Down Your Glass

2009-11-28T05:14:00.000-08:00

We disembark the bus and immediately enter a taxi for the 19km journey to Bali. It's a squeeze with seven people inside, plus lugguage. We meet the chief of the bride's family, a very elderly statesman like gentleman by the name of Mr Scott. After a spot of breakfast and a light nap, myself and Ngo motorbike it up to the Presbyterian Church crafts centre. The shops is closed over the weekend, but a very affable man, who just happens to be standing nearby, takes us on an informal tour of people making goods. We even visit a few houses to look at goods that are for sale today. Ngo uses the opportunity to buys some maracas. We also take up the chance to look over the valley to the highway winding it's way in to the distance. This leads to nearby Nigeria, and is a major route for goods, both licit and illicit, entering Cameroon.

We also visit the Fon's palace. When we arrive, we take a seat just outside whilst we arrange a guide. It is customary in these parts to clap three times when someone enters the room and joins you in sitting down. Those present duly do so for us. Myself and Ngo enjoy a short but highly interesting tour of the palace and the area's unique history. We even get to see the Fon, standing across the other side of the courtyard, staring at a computer, with a bemused look on his face. I told you it wouldn't be Henry Winkler. Instead, he's a middle aged man with glasses, and obtaining an audience with him is not as straightforward as I was led to believe. The Fon does indeed have a German wife, but she only seems to have a part-time role, being in the country a couple of times each year.

We manage a quick Malta Guiness, and a mouthful of the local palm wine (which smells suspiciously of rotten pickled onions, if that's possible). The wine is quite palatable, tasting considerably better than it smells. It's then back to the Chief's compound where we chat and generally relax, waiting for the afternoon festivities to commence.

The area of Bamenda/ Bali is a good six hour's drive from Buea and is noticeably cooler here. It was great last night coming off the bus and stepping into the cold dawn air. A fresh wind blows today across scenary that is generally more undulating than the southern coast, with a considerable number of hillocks, or kops. I'm informed that the rainy season here is almost the exact opposite to the south of the country.

The whole purpose of this visit is for the families of the soon to be weds to get to know each other better. It's as simple as that, and the following events turn out to be a great success. The groom's family congregate in the Chief's lounge, and we await the arrival of the bride and her entourage. In seems reminsicent of before, the bride finally enters an already packed room with her head covered by a partly unfolded tablecloth. Tradition demands that she is coaxed out by pleasentaries, and some cash.

With her unveiling, two or three members of each family make some speeches and generally work the crowd. C is in the thick of it again. Finally, a member of each family introduces the rest of their family to everybody present. To my surprise I get introduced as one of the family members. John (or as my namesake- bohmbow) introduces me as "John from Germany!". C quickly corrects this and, then I come forward to say my full name and origin. I recieve a rather generous round of applause, and, dare I say it, even a small cheer. With this done, Bohmbow also takes his seat, and as he does so, "Scotland The Brave" starts playing on his phone. Yes, note it wasn't "Deutschland Uber Alles!"

We then walk out to the arranged tented area, where we are served food and drink. There is quite a crowd gathered by this point, and many of the women get up for a dance to the really energetic music pounding from the speakers. Everyone gets a beer, and a satchet of "Jocker" Whisky, which strangely has a lion on the front. This leads me to a state of ambivalence, attempting to determine whether it's trying to be passed off as genuine scotch or not. There's also "Pink Flamingo" wine on the go, which keeps appearing to land at C's feet.

We are all a little conscious of leaving on time for the bus back, and, as is often the case with such events, the party winds up very early- about 8ish. I go inside to change my shorts and by the time I come back, it's all prety much over. We say our thanks to Mr Scott, who's still sitting rather serenely in his chair. We're off again!

The bus station at Bamenda is a lively place. Time affords me the chance to get some supplies for the journey, and, tickets in hand, we board the bus. A short straw is also in my hand- I have a middle seat. With the music cranking up to the "are you serious?" level, I have a weird premonition that sleep will be the impossible dream.

Driving through the highway towns, you can't fail to notice just what a hub of activities such places are. There are sellers of everything here, particularly food, working right through the night. They mob any bus that stops for even a split second, thrusting all kinds of things in your direction. Taking all this in, I turn to see C wrestling two pineapples and some carrots from a defeated seller's hands. If things get really bad, I still have the "Jocker" whisky in my back pocket.

Sitting on the bus, unable to get a wink of sleep, I reflect on the last two days. It was a great experience to go on this trip. With two night buses, I knew I was never going to see much of the landscape (or get much sleep!) but, overall it was definitely worth it.

Quadra-pop

2009-11-27T04:29:00.000-08:00

It's a local holiday today, so school and SOW are both cancelled. After a fine lie in, I taxi downtown to get some new books from "Books 'n' Things" and do a spot of "cyberspacing". It's a bit of wasted trip, as the power goes off just as I sit down to log-on, and Matthias from the book shop has disappeared, with the store's contents now being travel goods!! I ask the owner about Matthias' whereabouts, and it is with some reticence that she murmurs something about him being somewhere else. Most peculiar.

Back in Town, I bump into a local rasta dude, who I keep seeming to meet. He takes me to his craft shop/house to show me some of his handmade souveniers. It turns out to be a stone's throw from C's house, and as we enter it, he goes straight over to put some music on. For one awful moment, his hand hovers over the CD at the top of the pile- Jack Johnson!! Fortuitously, he puts on some reggae music, which isn't even Bob Marley.

The rest of the afternoon is spent enjoying a tremendous book, and packing my small bag. There's a nasty little rumour circulating that the bus will have a TV.

Onboard TV+ night bus= one seriously depressed tourist.

I've taken my best earplugs just in case. I am also wearing "proper" footwear for the first time in exactly 50 days! Surely this is a record that will never be beaten, unless I become a castaway on some desert island (hopefully one warmer than Orkney in December).

At 7.30pm, we leave and congregate on the street, being joined by four other members of the family. The others are: the groom's mother, sister (Anna) and John, brother of groom's deceased father. I spend some time talking with John. He's a really nice chap and a retired army sergeant of many years. It's traditional that John takes the place of his dead brother in such formal roles, and he does a fine job. Anna is a teacher trainer at the college and is very passionate and at times, quite saddened, by the state of education in her country. She believes that many of the western concepts brought over to Africa simply can't work along side African traditions. It's hard to argue with this opinion. Anna also tells me a story about kids learning to sing a song called "Mr Postman" in school. Well, Buea (and I'm guessing nearly all of Cameroon) don't have postmen who deliver letters, so how can kids really understand what it all means?! Now "Bingo, the farmer's dog", now that's a different matter entirely.

We meet up with Ngo, the unofficial photographer of the event. Our departure is only one hour late. Those who have been in Africa will know buses go when they are full, not at a certain time. We end up going in convoy, due to potential banditry, with our bus top roof light flashing. My delight at a distinct lack of TV is short lived when the ridiculously loud and ridiculously fast gospel music begins. We get a break for some reason between 2-4 am, and i manage to doze a little. Being able to sleep on a bus with rattling windows, and booming music is an art form I have still to master. As we dismount, a woman behind me declares: "Wonderful journey. Wonderful journey." Wonderful journey! It is in the sense that it has finished, and we have actually made it to Bamenda.

Sayuri

2009-11-26T06:47:00.001-08:00

It must be "National Pick On Taxi Drivers Day" today. There is often a police presence with regards to taxi. It's quite common and usual for many to be randomly stopped at checkpoints, and anywhere else, but the last few days have definitely seen an increase in this activity. Taxi drivers are constituted by a whole range of different characters. The job is one that many turn to when they can't find any other, and desperate people often do desperate things. Two local girls were taken by a taxi to a local plantation and attacked just the other day. My taxi gets stopped this morning and pulled over for sometime. I finally give up and hail another one. The walks to school from my drop-off point have become a regular occurrence, with the bus only occasional being empty enough for me to hop on. It's good exercise and surely gives me a chance to burn off some of this Palm nut oil that so much of the local food is cooked in.

I take Etonde again today. I also take some of the less able kids from another class 2 today during long break. Flashcards are awesome. A prolonged teacher's meeting in the afternoon leaves all of the children without any lessons. I set up an impromptu reading class in the workshop, getting through "The Three Little Pigs"and "Paddington and the Rainbow Knickerbocker Glory". Kids here just don't read and don't seem to be encouraged to read very much. There is good news on the horizon- the school is to get it's library. Clearly, this is an important step.

I witness a gaggle of officials from last week's coronation as I walk home from school. All the kingmakers and a number of the chiefs are also sitting outside Bitingi's new HRH's residence. The Cameroon flag flies proudly to show that the chief is in residence. Don't quite know what the occasion is. Maybe he is still opening his presents. A few of the locals recognise me as the token white from the crowd, and I even get greeted by the mad looking, drugged up witch doctor. No gun this time, thankfully.

SOW takes us to Bokwai. I end up with the dream student today, and we go over the old HTUs- hundreds, tens, and units. It's another one of those things that unexpectedly takes me back longer than I care to remember. HTUs complete, it's on to the times tables and another convert to a new way of counting.

One of the volunteers needs to fill about a million bottles of water at the well today for their three day expedition to the mountain top tomorrow. There's 25 German workers from all over Cameroon going. And Shun. Should be quite a trip. With all this preparation taking place, I decide to walk home.

The pace of life begins to ease at this time of the day. Any daytime breeze has disappeared, as has the heat of before. The roadside Bull rushes sit perfectly still, only occasionally ruffled by a passing motor car or pedestrian carrying empty sacks from the market, or full containers of water from the well. The rush of schoolchildren and people working is but a distant memory. The insects have started their evening chorus, and an overwhelming feeling of tranquility has veiled itself across the land. The irridescence of the sky is startling. Apart from a tiny patch of blue sky, it is a stunning fiery orange, bathing everything it touches. Swirls of the most vivid colours appear to begin from the mountain and drift over to be absorbed by the rest of the heavens, creating a sea of intensity.

African skies can be quite brilliant.

Laughing Like A Fool

2009-11-25T06:53:00.000-08:00

Curse those 4.45 bells!

Catherine greets me at the breakfast table this morning with a rousing rendition of "Bingo, the farmer's dog"- an old (and very catchy) school song from many a year ago. I might sing it on the way to school today.

School is going well. I take Etonde for some language and reading classes in the workshop. The local teacher is a helpful young man and is more than happy for me to do so. It's a thought to think I will be finishing here very soon, probably within the next seven days. I am trying to maximise my time here for what remains.

On the way back from school, I stop off at my country local for a quick beer. I regret to inform you that the Castel beer promotion has ended. The silver lining of this particular cloud is a change of promotion from their beer to their stout. I give it a go, and have instant success. It's not oodles of cash or the star prize of a Toyota ATV that I win, but another beer. I tapped on the bottle three times in front of the owner and told her I would win. She just laughed.

Champion's league night tonight, but instead of a bar, it's a TV shop. My money exchanger has invited me to sit with his friends and take in the game They are a real bunch of characters and certainly should be the regulars of a pub somewhere. In actual fact, the only thing that is a part of a bar in tonight's proceedings are the chairs from next doors joint, which we have unashamedly stolen. Nobody really seems to mind.

I spend some lengthy time with C tonight. It's been a while since we have both been around simultaneously. She informs me that she participated in a beer throwing ceremony this evening. It's sounds like a total waste, but, apparently, it's part of the local tradition. It precedes one of the departed's children getting married. The family gather around the grave with a beer and pour the first and the last of the bottle on to the hallowed ground. The drink is is then passed around those present and everybody takes a sip, before the last part is thrown down. As the ceremony occurs, everybody prays to their ancestors that the new couple may enjoy a successful union and bright future together. In this case, the family concerned is the one we are travelling with to Bamenda to meet the "other side". I met the groom yesterday. He's another cheery looking chap.

The main conversation of the evening, revolves around the Bamenda trip. I discover that we are going to meet the "Fons". It's not going to be the bizarre character from "Happy Days" though. Instead, it is a small distinguished group of infamous and powerful chiefs from the nearby area. Each one can have up to 30 wives, which he has simply chosen without anyone else's agreement. No getting down on one knee here. The particular Fon we are going to see is interestingly married to a German woman. I'm not sure what number she is. I find their marriage quite intriguing.

All that is required now is for me to find some clean clothes and c to locate where she has put all her pants.

Random local word or saying of today: "Last night, I slept with my shoes on."

Translation: "Last night, I got very drunk."

Anglophone, Francophone, Dialaphone

2009-11-24T06:41:00.000-08:00

C has returned from her hedonistic few days! She informs me that she's had a great time, and I believe her. It's good to see her back. She's a very good hostess and knows how to treat her guests. However, I imagine she can be a very formidable adversary, and certainly has a reputation in Town for being extremely hardworking. She is more than capable of shooting a look that could open an oyster from 50 paces.

Plans for our visit to Bamenda continue to gather a pace. It's not a wedding at all. More a sort of come and visit the new people coming in to the family (the in-laws). So far, I have established that the area has the biggest supply of hash the sub-Saharan side of Marrakesh, and local people there traditionally refused to shake hands with white people, less they caught fire. There's obviously some setting fire to things issues needing to be resolved. All will be revealed in due course..

School today goes quite well, undertaking a reading comprehension for the senior classes. The school is ever changing presently. There are some major building works planned shortly, and there are always pictures, and play things such as hopscotch, a long jump pit, and even a small football pitch under development. If I came back in six months, I'd probably have to go back out and check the number on the door.

The "Schools on Wheels" project is to be revamped, and will change the destination of every day's visit, and sometimes their frequency also. It's also a success today in Bokova. The general rule of counting for kids up to a certain age is to draw dots on a page and cross them out. It's effective up to a point (and an age). Today, I actually manage to get some of the children to start using their fingers to count in increments other than just one.

Without getting all teary-eyed and retrospective ( I still have over two weeks left), I think my word of choice for my stay in her household must be "wacky". A better man than me might be able to do justice and find the required words to make you fully envisage her infamous battle with a "beetle", her supervision of me preparing a pineapple, or her "special salute" that she gave to me when I recently bought her a beer. Priceless. I'm figuring great swaths of this trip will feel like they are only in my imagination, but that's not a bad place to be. If such thoughts aren't at least partly in your imagination, then where are they anyway?

No strength for Champion's League tonight.... Must crawl to bed.... Must recharge for tomorrow....

3.14

2009-11-23T03:38:00.000-08:00

I've taken to spending more time in "Coconut Island" recently. It's good fun chatting to the owner's children- Pauline and Junior. It' has sweeping view down into the city, and is a very laid back sort of place, yet I a can't seem to avoid getting in to a serious conversation about Cameroon's past or future. They always say never get involved in pub discussion about football, religion or politics. Well, those men in grey coats are right, and I adhere to this theory as best as possible back in Scotland. In Cameroon, football, religion and politics are pretty much all I speak about in bars. I think people are genuinely interested in how the outside world sees Cameroon. The country's favourite two pastimes are football and religion, so they're hard to avoid, too.

Tonight's discussion is with a very approachable civil servant of 36 years, now retired. Ralph finished his career in land reform and redistribution, the department responsible in this country for dealing with the almost endemic African problem of returning ancestral land to families who were denied it under colonial rule. In this country's situation it was very much a case of the Lord giveth, the Germans taketh away, and the British returneth. The process can be painfully slow and much of the land is still to be returned. There is also the additional problem of some current chiefs believing such land transfers are like a personal gift.

Ralph also tells me that the area of Buea was intended by the Germans to become a copy of Berlin, 10 kilometres square in size. Being comparably almost temperate, the area was highly conducive to the European settlers, who had decided there would be no available room for the existing locals. Instead, they would become marginalised in the hinterlands, commuting in for a hard day's graft before disappearing into the wilderness once more. Fate intervened with the outbreak of the Second World War, and the rest, as they say, is history.

It's interesting to walk past the scene of yesterday's wrestling gathering. The drums remain on the platform, with the kids taking over the beat. As they do, other children are practising the moves they learned from yesterday. Grass roots sport is where it all begins.

I meet my probable guide for the mountain this evening. His name is Samuel and he comes across as a friendly, but sturdy looking cove. I think he'll do just fine. I'll probably hire him independently and not through Ecotourism. The last two people I have spoken to who have climbed the mountain with them didn't enjoy the company of their guides, and the organisation has a mixed reputation, to say the least. It's a shame as there is substantial potential for this Mountain that the locals call "Fako".

C is still in Limbe, presumed partying. She's been gone for three days now. If I known she was going to be gone for that long, I'd have come with her. I thought it was just a flying visit. She will return some time soon.....

Reach For Greatness

2009-11-22T03:02:00.000-08:00

Wrestling has arrived in Beau Town today. Every so often, the local villages get together, putting their finest wrestlers forward for a fight to the death. Well, OK not actually to the death. More a pinning your opponents to the floor finish. To a non aficionado the wrestling looks very similar to most other wrestling around the world. There are no masks, tassels on boots, or hitting each other with conveniently placed collapsible chairs. This is the real thing. Instead, the warriors are bare chested wearing a sarong, usually on top of their trousers.

A big crowd has gathered to witness events on the "green". A team of drummers have been placed on a high wooden platform and beat their instruments for most of the day. Many of the duals last for quite a while, and a number do not reach any obvious conclusion. You certainly know it when they do. Any clear pinning is celebrated by a huge cheer from the crowd. The winner's team mates hoist him high on their shoulders and proceed to wheel themselves around the area, soaking up the adulation of the delighted crowd. The next two wrestlers then enter the arena. The bouts continue until the light has faded too much to continue. The crowd begin to disperse in the gloomy conditions, looking very content with what they have seen. Apparently, Buea Town did very well, winning the whole event.

Sitting watching the football in "No Name Bar", it's really intriguing watching all the local peddlars plying their trade. They stop off at many bars and shops displaying their wares. Belts and clothing are very common, as are pirated DVDs and boiled eggs. My favourite has to be the bling watches. These things would put a west coast gangsta rapper to shame. They are big, real big and real gold looking. I am so tempted to get one before I leave, but not sure it would fit in in Northern Scotland. I think I will need a suitable AKA before I can justify it.

There was not a drop of sunshine today, but that hasn't stopped it feeling very hot and humid. I guess is should be making the most of it.

Random local word or saying: "Ah-say!"

Translation: Inconclusive, due to no definitive answer. Is used as a polite way of initiating conversation when you have something you would like to say. Sort of like the quintessential Englishman's "I say!"

The Red Baron

2009-11-21T05:38:00.000-08:00

It's the weekend, and I celebrate by doing very little. Buea is a great place just to unwind when you don't have any other place to be, and the relaxed feeling of the place will surely be one of the many things that will shortly be missed. The football fest of a saturday and sunday will also be a loss. We get every single game here, beamed via a plethora of different international channels. The locals love it, and who am I to argue?

It's actually an unusual feeling being able to sit down in a bar and converse about football to other chaps I don't know, and have an intelligent conversation. There is no racist or sectarian bigotry, and many people I speak to hear are really articulate. They think about what they are going to say, and have a really good way of putting their point across. One man tonight has a belief that Brazil, England or Cameroon will win next year's World cup. I think he's right, but it won't be England or Cameroon.

Sitting in the bar, I find it slightly perplexing how people here will listen to the same song again and again and again. It's not so much the choice of music (ridiculously fast and ridiculously loud}, just an often lack of any variety. I've been in the same bar or internet cafe for several hours and the same song will be on repeat for all that time. One such tune is a song about a t-shirt, and an even more popular one is a Nigerian offering regarding a holy goat. They are the very definition of ubiquitous. Still managing to avoid Jack Johnson. Not once have I heard him. I just need to stay away from white people to essentially remove all risk. I've almost made it the entire trip!

I arrive home to some good news today. We are off to Bali! Probably not the Bali you're thinking of, but another one in Cameroon. This one is also some distance away. We have to go the famous city of Bamenda first and then take another bus onwards. Fortunately, all the transport is being laid on for us. The reason for our visit is another family wedding and C is overjoyed. She is dancing and waving her hands around as she announces the news. We leave on Friday.

The King Is Dead...

2009-11-20T03:22:00.000-08:00

Coronation day today!! The school has closed early as a result. I thought something was afoot, as during the last couple of days, a big clean up operation has been undertaken around the football pitch, and along the road. Grass was cut and all rocks were splatted with white paint. A banner went up yesterday proclaiming the event, with a 12pm PROMPT start- most unusual for Africa. Sure enough it kicks off on time on the pitch and an ever increasing crowd watches events unfold. A lot of tents and seats have been arranged, though we manage to pick the worst seats in the house, right in the sunshine.

After nine years of waiting ( not sure why it has taken so long) the local village of Bitingi is to receives its new chief. He is Nje (John) Makosa, a 40 year old school principal. Makosa has been chosen by the local king makers after very careful consideration. A shot gun starts the four hour proceedings. Local choirs from nearby are there to entertain and welcome guests, and they sing often throughout the course of the afternoon.

A group of witch doctors are one of the first to make an appearance. They are dressed in traditional costumes. One of them is tucking into a beer bottle- yes he is eating the glass- whilst another has a live chicken strapped to his back. By the look in his eyes, the oldest one of them has clearly been on the funny stuff, and I find it just a little unsettling that this guy has one of the local shotguns for the rest of the afternoon. The strange throng of characters bless the area of the coronation, before dancing off.

All the local chiefs are gathered for the event and are distinguishable by their brown skull caps, laced with seashells, and their bundles of sticks, which look remarkably like a small broom. There are about 30 in all and they sit together in one of the tents watching the proceedings. Occasionally, one of them will get up to help with a ceremony, tell a story or make a speech. One of the older ones has a real penchant for dancing, doing so whenever he can. This delights the crowd.

The best seats in the house (bottled water and flowers) are still to be taken. Originally, I thought these would be for the chiefs, but even in such a traditional event as this, the local government officials still hold sway. The Sub-divisional Officer of Buea arrives part way through the ceremony in his military uniform, along with other people in military uniforms and suits. They arrive to sing the national anthem, and take their seats afterwards. These bureaucrats have involvement and influence in the election process, and such activities must clearly have worn the main man out. He doesn't really look in the least bit interested in events. People still defer to his status and parts of the event are focused towards him.

I must admit to being slightly concious of the number of men wandering around with loaded and "unbroken" shotguns. They just point them in any direction they feel like, and fire them at very random moments, singlehandedly. One of the military figures in the VIP entourage eventually furiously chases one of them away. The perpetrator melts into the crowd rather sheepishly.

Some tradtionally dressed male warriors arrive along with three Ju-Ju men. The Ju Ju are scary spiritual figures. One of them has a huge head with horns. Quite striking. After they have finished dancing and singing, there is yet more speeches, more singing and more dancing. The chief leaves the arena to go to the ancestral home in the village where he will be properly inagugrated. The other chiefs leave with them, and return thereafter. Shortly afterwards, there is the usual announcement asking someone to move their car: "Will the owner of the vehicle registered SW4476 23 please remove their motor from the new chief's parking space".

The new chief takes his place on his throne in a small grass covered hut, with elephant tusks at the entrance. A kingmaker sits either side of him. He is now properly installed. His official title is His Royal Highness, Chief 3rd class. I'm not sure how the regal system works or whether it is taken seriously by the officialdom, but the villagers are quite content by it existence. I do know that the long wait for the new chief has been a cause of concern for some time in the village. It's certainly a day to celebrate and a fantastic part of local heritage to be involved in.

The ceremony draws to a close late afternoon and then it's back to the school for some food and drink, laid on by the villagers. At events such as this, and weddings, you never pay for anything not even the drinks. It is all very generously laid on for you. Availibility can often be a bit sparse. There are so many people needing to be catered for, and getting a Castel can be a bit of a bun fight. It's the very much the fast or last principle. I'm delighted to get a plate this time, and even a plastic spoon.

Fed and watered, I walk back to downtown with Simon, a member of the crowd, and part time volunteer at the nearby orphanage in Bokova. He's studying at the moment to become an engineer, and is keen on helping the orphans, as he himself is one. He's very good company and it's good to share the experiences of what has been a tremendous afternoon.

We Are Here Because You Are There

2009-11-19T03:11:00.000-08:00

School is a bit interupted at the moment due to trainee teachers from the local teacher's college undertaking there first lessons. The only class I take today is behemoth of both class 6's. That makes 60 children in all. Too much! There aren't even enough desks. Shun is walking about school again, this time with two big water containers. This is another one of those bizzarre things that oddly sets my mind at rest. I think he must be making a pond for his garden. Heaven knows where he will get the Coi Carp from.

SOW is a bit of a sucess today. I simultaneously take a computer lesson for teenagers, and a reading and writing lesson for 6 year olds. Thankfully, only four teenagers turn up for the computer lesson, as there is only one computer. Resources can be pretty scarce around here, particularly when you most need them.

Best places witnessed driving up the road towards the mountain, and into the sun- "Dr Obama's Snack Bar" and "No Comment Bar", where people are flagrantly breaching the house rules, conversing quite freely.

Random local word or saying of the day: "Dash me some monies."

Translation: "Give me some money."

A Wonderful Thing

2009-11-18T12:54:00.000-08:00

Today is Wednesday. Therefore, it must be rubber plantation visiting day! We travel along the Yaounde road to the village area of Tiko. Our guide for today is Terrence, a very affable chap, and casual worker at the school. We start at the farm, watching the white rubber sap dripping in to the buckets, which are tied to the trees. There are lots of trees. There are lots of mosquitoes. These are particularly nasty looking black and white ones, who would give you malaria for looking at them the wrong way. There is also another encounter with a big ant. I used to like ants.

We then proceed to the factory site, where, somehow, Terrence manages to wangle us in with visitors passes. Security didn't look too happy at first- I don't think they get a lot of tourists. It is highly interesting watching all the various processes involved in changing white sap into scorched black blocks. Truck arrive, people wash and the squeeze the rubber, and containers are filled. The rubber is then shipped all over the world to be created into an unimaginable number of different things.

We even have time to visit a nearby small holding, where a very nice woman shows us around her variety of plants, including Peanuts, Pineapples, and Huckleberry. We even get to try some of the nuts straight from the ground. It wasn't my intention to make this excursion today. I'm surprised how much I have enjoyed the whole experience. Well done Terry! We celebrate with a spot of lunch- plantains, fish, rice and beans. And a beer.

It's Natalie's last night here before she returns to Germany, so I make it back downtown for a few drinks. Walking back up the road in the dark, I fail to avoid a very deep dirty puddle and cover my leg best flip flops in filth. It's hard not to see the funny side as, from the darkness, I hear Shun doing an immaculate impersonation of a London underground train: - "Mind the gap. Mind the gap."

Wild? I Was Furious!

2009-11-17T12:10:00.000-08:00

I was informed today that there is no a school today and tomorrow due to a teacher's training forum.. I make the most of my first day off by arranging to meet up with Natalie in Limbe. Negotiating my way through the Chelsea taxi touts, one of them attempts to charge me 10000 CFA. I assume that this must be for the car itself, but it's a dilapidated looking machine, so I take the mini-bus instead.

It's a pretty successful day, seeing more than the coach park and the oil rig this time around. We firstly take in the Limbe Wildlife Centre, a home for orphaned animals taken from the wild. The animals are in very good condition, full of life, with plenty of young- always a good sign. It's mostly primates- Chimpanzees,Mandrills, Baboons, Gorillas, monkeys-, but there's also room for a couple of antelope, some crocodiles and a python. It's quite a contrast watching the slow moving, almost regal, gorillas staring across in almost palpable disbelief at the hooping, fighting and dancing Chimpanzees. The latter are far too human for their own good.

With all the primates behind a cage or fence ( some may know I have a lot of bad luck with such creatures), the wildest thing I encounter is a really browned off (big soldier) ant who has negotiated its way into my shorts, and is determined on highlighting to me that one of us is definitely in the wrong place. No self inflicted flurry of blows will shift it either, so i have to disappear behind a small bush and seek retribution.

The centre isn't particularly big, but the enclosures are pretty spacious, with plenty of climbing apparatus and seats to sit and stare at the humans. One of the mandrills has suffered a laceration on his leg ( maybe from a fight), and is put under sedation by the European vet, before being carried to a holding cage until it revives itself. It's kind of strange seeing a non human being put into the recovery position. A lot of the workers here appear to be European volunteers, and I gather it's quite a prestigious place to get in to.

Being with a German, we make the mandatory stop at the bakers before hitting the beach. Etisha beach is a good 20 minute drive from Limbe. It's a lovely stretch of coastline, with vegetation coming almost right down to the black, volcanic sand. Mist crowns the hills in the near background. The waves are impressive also, a manageable size for some wave surfing, even for a man with the swimming ability of "Eddie the Eel". It's also great just relaxing in the sun, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on to the beach, watching the locals carrying bananas and driftwood off into the distance.

We leave early evening, making our way back to prepare the Mexican food that is tonight's meal. I can report that the results were pretty tasty. Limbe is a pretty happening place- there is always a get together or party arranged. A lot of tourists and volunteers live here, and there is a very different vibe here compared to Buea. The heat and the sweat of Limbe can't compare to my tranquil hill station retreat, though.

I Am Fine

2009-11-16T07:00:00.000-08:00

Kids in school are very touchy feely and love hugging and holding hands with the volunteers. They appear fascinated with white skin and laugh at white people's facial features. The greatest source of interest, though, is hair. They are always offering to plat it (one reason why I had to get it chopped), and are simply mesmerised by how soft it feels. I am beginning to feel like a household pet. There have been two or three requests for me to get it shaved entirely, but I think that must just be jealousy.

Buea's finest young minds are often trying to get me to do embarrassing things. They recently demanded that I copy them singing a local song. I finally caved, to unsurprising howls of laughter. "Good!", one of the girls said. "Now dance!" On another occasion, when hearing the lesson was complete, a pupil said: "The lesson is finished! Now do something funny..." Maybe balancing a beachball, or climbing the "Wall of death" might suffice.

Coming back from school today, I meet a peculiar looking man bounding towards me at high speed. He's a runner, fairly mature chap still looking in an incredibly athletic condition. He's covered in sweat, wearing a skin tight vest, eyewateringly tight running shorts, and the thickest pair of gloves you can imagine. We make our introductions, and then he gets to the main part of the meeting: "Tell everyone that Jesus is in Cameroon. Go tell your friends and go to the Ecotourism office. Tell Scotland about it. Tell everybody about the news!!!" A shake of his massively clad hand later, he's cantering up the hill towards Bokova, and possibly salvation itself. I'm just sort of standing there looking at him leave, wondering what's it all about. What is it all about?

Taking the taxi up the road I set a new record for most people outside of a moving taxi- 5. There are two standing in the boot, one relaxing on the roof, and two standing out of the back seat side windows. I wonder if I will beat this one?

I return to witness Mickey running after his 15 year old cousin with a shovel in his hands. I know I'm home when I see such things, and I'm starting to feel alarmingly reassured by such happenings. Otherwise the house is very quiet and a tranquil evening is spent undertaking a little bit of work.

Random local saying or word of today: "Cutlass"

Translation: Another word for a long knife or machete.

Honest Betrayal

2009-11-15T06:33:00.000-08:00

It's been nice to get the bucket of hot water for the shower every morning. There is no such thing as warm water through the mains,it is lovingly heated up over the fire or the hob. A warm shower requires a little jug to throw it over yourself to get all squeaky clean. All water is switched off after about 3pm until approximately 6am. In any kitchen or bathroom, much of the floor space is taken up by big containers full of water for the barren spell of each day. It all sounds a bit of nuisance, but it's pretty incredible how used to it you get when there is no option. Besides, any alternative is now being viewed as a complete extravagance!

I meet the young man and friend with the dictaphone from last night's dance. They are very keen on my thoughts about Cameroon. They come across as two very disaffected young adults, and are very keen to use the power of The United Nations and The Commonwealth to create a more democratic system of government. I try to explain that I don't really have the contacts at either institute to initiate an invasion, but they could maybe start a protest to show their annoyance. I'm just waiting for jail now when the authorities discover I put two young men up to establishing the biggest riot in Buea's history.

The conversation ends (bizarrely, but not completely unexpectedly) by dictaphone dude asking to get some email addresses for the Oprah Winfrey Show. He has a idea for a programme and is keen to let the US' queen of chat shows in on his plan. This is the sort of experience nobody should ever get tired of encountering. I said I would look into it for them. Can anybody help? I think the very idea alone deserves some assistance.

After some writing, I return to find C has acquired some palm wine. Trying it for the second time, I'm not exactly convinced that I really like it. You could describe it as very natural and unprocessed- almost earthy-or you describe it as as rough as the proverbial badger's..... One mouthful is enough for me tonight, swiftly followed by a book and candle light.

Random Word Or Saying Of The Day: " I am the one!/He is the one!/She is the one!"

Translation: "It was me!/ It was him!/ It was her!"

D Day- Part 2 (Revised)

2009-11-14T11:20:00.000-08:00

C has gone to the farm early today to get Okre and firewood, so I am forced to go to town and forage for food this morning. The place is its usual busy self with the extra spice of today's final World Cup qualifier" Morocco v Cameroon. The bars are getting busy fairly early, and expectation hangs in the air.

I had planned on meeting up with one of the girls in Limbe today, taking in the game and visiting the zoological gardens and wildlife sanctuary. I am keen on meeting the resident gorilla. However, all Limbe plans are shelved and my stay today will be exclusively in Town. I bump into my Nigerian money exchanger (Stephen), who insists on my coming to his premises to watch the earlier Nigeria game on his PC. I catch the last few minutes of Nigeria's 2-3 win with a small spattering of Nigerians, closely followed by a bit of MUTV- Stephen is a fully subscribed member of the channel.

Squeeze in a bit of emailing- happy birthday Rachel!- then it's off to watch the game. Incredibly, the signal has been lost from the Arabic channel, and the first twenty minutes are spent watching a blue screen, much to the disdain of the local supporters. A large cheer begins eminating from a group of radio listeners, spreading throughout the town- Cameroon have scored an early goal! They don't look back, recording an easy win against their North African adverseries. The crowd in the bar become increasingly vocal, with flags flown and blow horns tooted. The "Indominatables" are going to to 2010!!

In the fading light, I make it along the road to watch a traditional Bacqueri cutural evening on the outskirts of town. Bacqueri is C's tribe and one of the main ones in SW province, and the evening celebrates their cutural diversity. I arrive to witness a dance called the "Cham- Cham". Everyone gets in a circle and sort of grooves about a bit. A very friendly (resting) performer explains the finer differences between this and the "Cha-Cha". I thought the "Cha-Cha" was from elsewhere? During the course of the dance, I get interviewed by a young university student with a dictaphone, who has been commentating on tonight's proceedings. He introduces me as "the white man in the crowd" and ends proceedings by thanking "Mr Johnny from Scotchielan' ."

Finally make it to the club tonight. Don't actually enter the club proper, more the sort of caberet place, where the resident band are performing, accompanied by a number of lead singers. One of the singers is resplendent in a "Tony Manero" white disco suit. The evening is just fine and ends at a very respectable time. Nights out in Cameroon can continue for some time, with "until dawn" a very arbitrary concept, but this doesn't concern me tonight.

Horse's Head

2009-11-13T05:15:00.000-08:00

I see another bizarre sight on the road today. As I'm walking to the village school, a car drives past, jam packed. Inside isn't enough to cater for everybody, so one of the youths (in a bright yellow Chelsea shirt) drapes himself over the the bonnet, mostly in front of the driver. Whether all concerned thought that, as long as he is wearing a sort of safety vest, all will be ok is uncertain. It's very hard not to look quite bemused when such things pass you at 8am.

Shun has encountered a small problem in his attempts to create a Japanese garden: somebody dug up his bamboo thingy in the middle of the night, and has stolen it!! I don't know where this leaves the entire project, but I expect to see Shun with another clump of Bamboo very shortly. You couldn't make this stuff up.

I am given quite an opportunity today, one which I am not exactly qualified for; one that nobody at the school is exactly qualified for. A new Down Syndrome girl has arrived at the school. Her name is Entombe, and her class teacher gets me in to try and explain why she is different, and what can be done. The main crux of the conversation is that she wants me to take her away from class as often as possible, and teach her alone. It's very easy to sympathise with the teacher, who will badly struggle to teach Entombe, and the rest of the class under the "fast or last" schooling sytem. I tell the teacher the basics of the genetic condition, and she has no idea about it. Nobody has told her anything. "Maybe I can get the mother in as well, so you can tell her what you just told me" she says after I have said the small amount I know. Her mother is a teacher. Hopefully something can be arranged.

One thing I haven't done is mention my nemesis- someone who can strike fear into your very heart. I live in a household, almost exclusively of women: Catherine is the matriarch, despite the fact her aging mother lives with her too. The mother must be well into her seventies, and seems to spend nearly all day, in the cook/smokehouse at the back of the building. This lady is tough and thinks nothing of a long walk to the farm for firewood. C's oldest daughter is divorced and lives in the house with her three year old son; her youngest daughter also stays there with her four month old baby; and finally, three grandchildren (from one of C's twin daughters who died quite young) complete the roll call. You can imagine it gets quite noisy, quite often.

Now you would think that myself and the 3 year old fellah would stick together. However, Michael or "Mickey" has other ideas. I have come to know him as the "Baby faced assassin". He always greets me with his usual (pre) choirboy smile and friendly wave. This is my signal for Red Alert: battle stations!! Mickey is very bright, speaks a lot of English, (his favourite saying to me is: "I will not tell you!") and is more than a little bit cute- basically, a fearsome combination. The boy is a whirlwind, indefatigable. He gets everywhere and touches everything. He will cry at all hours, but never in my company- I think the little terror is too busy doing very bad things to me and my possessions.

Mickey's recent crimes against humanity include: hitting me with a stick; stealing my candle (so I could not see in the dark); trying to lock me in my room; lying about being able to read; biting me on my arm; and headbutting me in the Kugglesachen (this might have been an accident). Recently he asked me for a saw knife (serrated edge). "Why do you want that?" I asked innocently. "So I can cut your head off" he replies. This would normally be the time where I started sleeping with a locked door, but he has already worked out a way of opening it, so no point in doing that. You get the idea.

Once his one child crime spree is over, he ostensibly gives me the same choirboy smile and friendly wave for any witnesses, before trotting off to select his next hapless victim. Recently, C put it in her own inimitable way when she said: "That boy will flog his wife well!" I couldn't put it any better. I get this eerie feeling that,somehow, I will end up next to Shergar. Things can very tough going around here.

Random local saying or word of today: "I need to ease myself."

Translation: "I would like to go to the toilet."

Is It: A) Don Williams; B) Don Simon; C) Don Quixote ?

2009-11-12T12:23:00.000-08:00

Bit of a hectic day in't school. Mr Nduka has been bravely battling malaria recently, and finally succumbed to the doctor and narcotics. He's expecting to be fine after the weekend. As a resultof him being absent, I end up taking extra classes at short notice. I also help with the PE classes, where the boys are roundly trounced by the girls once more.

SOW is interesting today. There appears to be an ever increasing posse of boys in the village, who have gotten wind that I can take a computer or two every Thursday. I'm expecting about 86 young chaps next week.

Stop back in Downtown on the way back to visit all the other volunteers in their wee house. Last week was spent redecorating and the results are pretty impressive. Haven't seen them in much over the last week or so, so it's fine to catch up. One of the girls has just climbed the mountain. It was great to see all her photos, and certainly reminded me of previously being up in the mist.

Shun was entertaining us with his creation from wood work class. Earlier, I had seen him walking about with this big clump of Bamboo, and thought it a bit strange. It transpires that he was making some ornamental Japanese wotsit, fully intent on turning a patch of ground into a Japanese garden (hopefully, where harrassed volunteers can recouperate). I don't really get the gyst of what he has made, but he's buried it in the ground for some reason. A rare few beers with the team in Moliko before the usual hilarity and surrealism of my house.

Bed, a chance to dream.

By the Way, An' Thaaat

2009-11-11T06:38:00.000-08:00

The day starts with the usual mini-cab ride down town. Travelling down, I see a taxi on the opposite side of the dual carriageway, merrily driving into the oncoming traffic. Even by road safety standards here, this is pretty unusual, and I figure he must be practicing for his test. It's nearly always a "he" when I mention driving in Cameroon. I could count the number of women drivers on one foot.

The sun beats down as I exit the taxi and head for lessons- a rare blast of sunshine in an otherwise dull looking week. There's a tap in a small village along the way, which is always running and has been very handy during my little hikes. It must be an important watering point, as there is often a 4x4 or three, waiting to fill up as many containers as can be fitted in.

For some strange reason, a large group of smaller kids seen intent on flash-mobbing today, intent on hanging on to me and pulling me to my doom. In the end, I convince them that there is a new volunteer, waiting to meet them at the school gates, and hand them copious amounts of sweeties. This is obviously the point I leg it in the other direction. It's terrible to lie to small kids and I don't feel big or clever, but needs must.

Actually, there is a new volunteer at the school. His name is Shun and he has arrived from Japan. Shun comes across as a very gregarious, and friendly character, who will prove very popular. I wonder if the kids will call him "white man".

Back at the house, well fed and watered as usual, the radio gradually sends me into a slumber tonight. The BBC World Service has been an awesome find. The corporation is highly regarded all over the world and it is easy to see why, listening to their productions here. It all reminds me just how good they can be, and I can't help having a wee feeling of pride (like I am partly responsible), whenever I switch it on. The whole channel is naturally slanted towards relevant African news and features, but there is an incredible mix of stories from around the world too.

As a whole, it beats the tripe of "dumbed down" news we have at home. Who really gives a pooh if Cheryl Cole has been denied planning permission for an underground swimming pool? (unless she was going to drown her husband in it). Even the additional "extra" stories are great, much better than the "And finally..." clips from home, where a windsurfing dog is supposed to make us forget about the other 27 minutes of news, and world poverty.

Such features include: The tale of three Soviet all women air force regiments from WW2, so good the Nazis feared them as the "Night Witches"; a tale about how people in Agra are becoming marginalised from the most beautiful building in the world: The Taj Mahal; and (my favourite): how Glaswegian is being translated into all major European languages (including English), due to the communication problem it creates in the business world. Just wait for the Rosetta Stone copy to make an appearance.

I'll Take The Bed In The Corner

2009-11-10T05:58:00.000-08:00

Walking to school today, it really strikes me just how many children carry their tools around with them. The tool is sometimes a curved handled shovel, but usually, it is a machete. These tools can quite literally be the length of the child themselves. They seem to use them just before and/or just after school.

Taking such implements to school will clearly save time going home and whatnot. It feels very strange seeing so many potentially lethal weapons being carried around by people so young, particularly as many of them are on the way to school. It's almost like it's bad form not to go to school all " tooled up". I guess this must be how a tourist in Glasgow must feel. To be fair, the kids here don't have a hammer in the other hand.

I spoke to man after-school today who was very keen to learn about British politics. It is very confusing (for all concerned) to try and explain about the whole UK/ Great Britain thing. You have to explain that the Queen is in charge, but isn't really, that Scotland has a parliament, but in a way doesn't really, and the same for Wales, Northern Ireland etc....

Like many other people here, this chap was very distrusting of the whole political thing. There are free elections here, with the President then making his own choices, which is almost understandable....But surprise, surprise he enjoys power so much that he recently changed the law to give himself a life presidency. Mr Bea had originally changed the law to prevent something like this happening, but had a wee change of heart. Power is a very strange thing.

Corruption is rife. Politicians are well known for embezzling/ stealing billions of francs of public money, and my friend tells me the system is set up for it. When the crooks do get caught, they get a soft jail term in a soft prison, where they can continue to spearhead operations. The public don't really care much for the jailing of these people- they simply want their money back, and rarely ever see any of it. You know the system is wrong when private sector workers leave their jobs for the bigger perks and salaries of a public sector job. Surely it is normally the other way around?

Nobody comes to SOW (School On Wheels) today, and this is a little bit disappointing. I figure the Monday afternoon village visit has been very sporadic since I arrived, and this must play a big part in the lack of attendance.

We end up taking the school bus back to downtown, as (fortuitously?) it is taking the children home from extra lessons this evening. To say the bus is crammed full of people is a massive understatement ( It always is). "Standing room only" is a slight misconception too; more like "croutching and contorted in agony room only". A tin opener is usually required when we make it to our final destination, where every one crawls out for breath. Not thinking things are cramped enough, a very young looking Finch in his first week of aeronautical school flies in the drivers window, and sit's on his knee. Quite extraordinary.

I enjoy a fun evening with C and S, both of whom are in very good form, and many a laugh is had. S is preparing her baby's baptism invitations for next month. Baby is getting baptized on Christmas Day, which I find rather a fine idea.

Random saying of the day: " I am coming."

Translation: " I am going, and might not see you for some time."

The Young Man And The Storyteller: A Tale For The Young And The Curious

2009-11-09T05:56:00.000-08:00

The Young man was sweating profusely. For some time he had been climbing, and his bag was beginning to feel a little heavier. There had been considerable rain in the period before the climb had began and the moisture still sat heavy in the air. Freshly formed puddles lay everywhere, and were deep. Equally frequent tree roots were slippery, treacherous to those unsteady of foot, or lacking in attention.

At the start of the climb, one of the young man's shoes had failed him, and broken free from his foot. It was placed in his bag; he would see to it later. The trail was deserted. The recent downpour had seen to that: The young man neither passed anybody, nor was he passed by anybody else. Up and up he climbed. The trees and vegetation on either side of the path blocked his view, preventing any chance of perspective been placed upon his location. They also trapped the precipitation, making conditions even muggier. Sometimes, the path narrowed into the foliage and all things felt oppressive. There were many stones and rocks along the way, a seemingly increasing amount of which felt sharp and painful to his normally overprotected, and now, exposed foot.

Hours earlier, the young man had been in a house. It had been built at the bottom of the hill, in a clearing. Maybe it had been made from the very trees that had been cleared for it's creation. The house was not grandiose. However, it was very elegant in a colonial style, and had a certain charm. I guess you could say that it was beautiful. Maybe one had to have been inside it to understand where it's charm came from, and how it's beauty lay.

Walking through the corridors and rooms of the house gave you the feeling that the residents had just gone out, maybe for a walk down to the beach or up to the mountain. A sowing machine and walking stick sat idle, as if they had just been used. The house effused a warm and welcome feel to it's visitors, a feeling you get in some houses and not in others. It appeared to say: "I am more than a house, I am a home. I have been loved. I have made people happy."

Up and up he climbed, further and higher still. He thought that the views must be spectacular by now, if only he could see! He continued to sweat, and the stones continued to feel sharp. He took a rest, and then drank from his bottle. The water was cool and refreshing. He was glad of it, as his legs were of the rest. He sat and contemplated his destination. Days before, he had been unaware of it's existence, or, more precisely, it's actual location. He hadn't believed it could be so far away from its source. Now, the young man was as determined to see it as if he crossed the oceans solely for its visitation.

The Storyteller had been born into a wealthy family. He had suffered in his health, and a sickly child had, in turn, developed into a sickly man. In spite of, and because of, his illnesses he had determined that he would travel the world, looking for places that suited, and excited him. Illness affected his travels, but adventure was the central theme. For the storyteller was a true adventurer; not in the physical sense- illness had curtailed any possibility. However, such illness had sparked an inclination and opportunity for an ever increasing imagination, and a romanticism of what the great world had to offer.

He put his bottle back into his bag, picked himself up and continued on his way. His mind wandered to previous experiences on his travels: the cool sea breeze of a distant shore; of laying awake at night listening to the sounds of a jungle chorus; a craggy mountain path leading into the mist; the people he had come to know as friends. All of these things had taken place under a myriad of foreign skies and he was pleased to remember every one.

All these thoughts were quickly dispelled as he re-focused, once again, on the path ahead. He knew he could not be far away now. Soon he would be there. The young man wondered how many others had made such a pilgrimage. He also wondered about the route he had taken, one that was predetermined and offered no real opportunity for deviation. Coming out of a particularly tall thicket of trees, the path narrowed to its smallest width yet, before opening out into a clearing. The air felt fresher; light stole back the trees from shadow. A soft breeze blew through his hair. He had arrived.

Like many other European settlers, the storyteller had arrived in this strange land far away from home. He looked and behaved differently to the locals. He must have aroused quite a bit of curiosity, for he looked different to the other settlers as well. I dare say he also created a certain degree of suspicion amongst all of the island's inhabitants. Many native people were wary of European rule, of being controlled by foreign people, who had little understanding of the customs and sensitivities of those who had been here for many years. But, as you know, the storyteller was different, and the locals quickly came to realise this. He built his house far from other Europeans and quickly involved himself in native life. He thought like them, and fought for them, and many people grew to love him for it.

Making his way over to the small stone monument, in the centre of the opening, the young man considered what exactly the tribute would be. He walked up to the long white stone lying on the ground and traced his fingers over the stone's metallic plaque, reading to himself as his fingers move over each letter and word. Time had faded the colour of the stone and taken the gleam off the engraving, but this didn't matter.

108 years before, the storyteller had lost his delicate grip on life, in his 45th year. The night he died a group of locals had insisted on standing guard over him until daylight, thereafter carrying him up to his final resting place on top of the mountain. They carried their hero, friend and "Tusitala". He had championed their cause, and now, in death, they granted him his final wish. They buried him there on the 4th December 1894. He was dressed wearing his walking boots in case he should choose to, once more, walk in the nearby hills he so dearly loved.

The young man left the graveside and walked across to the far side of the opening, where it plunged over the side to the forest below. He saw a magnificent view of his surrounds. He looked off to the distance and saw a number of southern islands, and the vast ocean which encapsulated them all. As he gazed out to sea, he contemplated. He was saddened to think of those lives that are cut short when so much is still to be offered. Some time before, he had been told that a life is not to be measured by length, but rather by it's accomplishments and the people it has affected. These words gave him heart.

He looked upon life as one long adventure. Although he did not know his own future, he resolved to make the most of the time afforded to him; he hoped for the strength and grace to face the challenges that life would inevitably create. He knew that when life became difficult all things broken could be fixed, all things hurt could be healed, and all things lost could be found. He was pleased to be considering such things; he thought of them as important, and hoped that others thought similarly from time to time.

The young man moved back to the monument and re-read the inscription:

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

He thought the words perfect for the storyteller, and the location he now stood in. He knew he would remember these words.

The young man wished he could have met the storyteller on the mountain all those years ago. He knew not what he would have said to him, but hoped they could have spoken candidly, and at length. Maybe they would have walked down the mountain together, back to the house at the bottom of the hill, and the storyteller would have read one of his stories to the villagers, on the verandah, as the shadows lengthened.

After they brought the Storyteller to the mountaintop , the local people had emotionally cut the path from the side of the mountain. They had given it the name "Road of the Loving Hearts". He endeavoured to make the most of his walk back down it. Even though he had made the exact same walk recently, he would look on it as a new adventure, one where every step provided new possibility.

He leaned on the faded white stone, took off his good shoe, and placed it in the bag with his other one. As he set off to go back down, he was sure that the stones would not feel so sharp, the air would not feel so heavy, and the trees would not seem so oppressive.

Moliko Jo-Jo

2009-11-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

Today is very relaxed, the day begins with another startling display of the weather around these parts, exactly a week (almost to the minute) after the last really thunderous show. This time the sky is even darker, and the rain even heavier. I imagine this is how Doomsday will probably begin. The weather is quite apt as, looking out the window, I listen to the BBC World Service's coverage of Remembrance Sunday from Whitehall.

I guess I will have to prepare for a few more days like this very shortly- there's only one thing wetter than a Scottish winter, and that's a Scottish summer, but the winter's are bad enough. Listening or watching things you have experienced so many time back home is always a little strange, when you are watching the same thing somewhere else. I guess it also underlines the fact that even though you are away, life is very much going on where you know it best.

I have a laugh with C about the events of the preceding day. She reminds me how I took one of the left over palm leaves from the ceremony and proceeded to give her a "White man's top 25 uses for a Palm leaf" over the course of the rest of the night. Don't think i quite managed 25. So many stories from yesterday.

Sipping on my beer, I witness more doom and gloom at "Freeze". People in Cameroon love their Lager, and beer trucks are almost as common as taxis. The bars open as early as anything else does, and there is always at least one person sitting at nearly every one when I start my morning's journey. The two big sellers are Castel and Export 33. The former is doing brisk business now as you can instantly win another bottle by checking under the lid for a symbol. Doing this is great fun, but I've only won once. The bottles here are big 650ml bruisers-anything else is for pansies.

Tuborg, Amstel, Mutzig and Bueaforth are the other contenders. Another one called Pelworth is the most expensive and is only ever mentioned in hushed tones. I have only seen it on an aged posted, and still am not entirely convinced about it's existence- a bit like Nessie and the Three Legged Haggis. If you don't like the Amber nectar, the other choices are reasonably limited. You can buy yourself the same size bottle of "Gin Tonic", or "Whisky Black". Now things get really serious. Both weigh in at 8.5%, and seem to start affecting your legs first, which is nuisance for walking home. Be warned!

My day is almost complete finishing off some prep work for tomorrow's lesson. Who would have thought copying and increasing in size a map would be so difficult? Australia, Indonesia, and (i'm ashamed to say) the UK, have caused all the problems this time around. Must be an island thing. Each one is grotesquely mis-shaped or quite a bit a way from where it should be. Here's me telling them everything on a map is to scale as well. It's the universe next week. What cosmic damage can I oversee for that?

I go through the contents of the first aid box in case I ever need to help myself in an emergency. There's quite a selection on display (C's daughter in law is a German Doctor). Not really sure that the rat poison should be in there, though. C intends to use it to "fix" a rather troublesome mouse that is behind on the rent, and not using the sofa properly. Feet down!

Four Funerals And A Wedding

2009-11-07T05:32:00.000-08:00

Wedding day today. The skies are blue, the people are singing, and the goat has been found. Happiness reigns, once more, over Buea. Not even a lack of internet connection (frequently happening) can dampen my spirits. Throwing on my linen trousers, best flip flops, and seventies disco shirt, I remark that we're already late for the service. "That's black man time. Nothing will happen for an hour or so yet" Suzzane says. Turns out she's right. However, by the time we do arrive, we still manage to be late, with everyone seated, and the singing under way. Nobody really seems to notice (or care).

The church is decked out in balloons, flowers, and ribbons, and looks just perfect. The overall feeling is one of warmth, though this might be the heat from outside creeping in. Fortunately, they put on the multitude of fans, much to everyone's joy. The first preacher gives a very funny sermon about how women are "shock absorbers" and "doubly refined products", and this goes down very well with the ladies in the congregation. The vows are exchanged, and the people stand up and shout, sing and dance when each half have said their bit. The choir join in too. All this stirs C from her sleep. I didn't have the heart to wake her, not even for the vows. She has been working so hard for the wedding, preparing loads of food. She got up at 5am today and 4am yesterday- Cameroonian food takes a lot of time and effort to create.

But such are services in this fine land. People are very vocal, and very spontaneous. There is no such thing as an austere, stiff collared service; at least I haven't seen one. All the exuberance always seems appropriate, never misplaced, and today is no exception. The happy couple proceed to dance a local shoulder shaking dance around the church under a held canopy of palm leaves (very biblical looking), moving towards the exit as they pass.

The first part over, it's down to the government offices for the reception. It takes place around a square shaped building, with the tables outside, all looking inwards to a central courtyard, where much of the proceedings take place. The MC keeps things moving along nicely, introducing the top table and then the bride and groom who have finally arrived. Still dancing, there appearance is met with more hooping and singing. This time they are headed for the top table.

Drinks are served, and the tables take it in turns to help themselves to the huge home-cooked buffet, sat tantalisingly close in the courtyard. C informs me that there is "a scarcity of plates", emptying the table's communal peanut bowl, giving it a wipe and then handing it to me, as she says it. The traditional high tempo African music gives way to slow and slushy western stuff like Elton John (not sure "Sacrifice" is entirely appropriate), Celine Dion, and of course, Don Williams. Good old Don. "Why do people here like him so much?" I ask. C replies: "His songs are very useful." Two young choirs sing their songs to the newly weds. The all male one is pretty good and they sing a cheeky little ditty about touching and kissing. The crowd find it quite amusing.

The songs sung, the cake cut and the speeches made, everyone lines up to hand over their present to the couple. I hand over my plate set and get a souvenier happy couple keyring in exchange, showing their smiling faces and inscribed with "Lydia and Henry" and the date. Such momentos are very popular here (including for funerals) and you will often see similar t-shirts, badges and hats detailing such notes as: "Percy Nduma. Sunrise 4th February 1954, sunset 3rd November 2008." Things start drawing to a close at the surprisingly early time of 7pm. The bride and the groom circulate, individually thanking those still remaining for coming, and handing over milk cookie sweets as a final gesture.

We take a taxi back to Town, for a few beers. I'm delighted to get myself a very snazzy retro 70's Mutzig Beer polo shirt, having courageously drank enough beer to qualify for it. We meet George, a local neighbour of C, and a teller of neck achingly tall tales. He takes us to the live music hotspot nearby, where a reggae band is "ripping things up".

They always say confront and conquer your fears, so I make the decision to accost the lead singer during his fag break and ask him to play a Bob Marley song. So it is that we find ourselves dancing to "Waiting In Vain" in a packed local bar (minus the empty dancefloor) at the foot of Mount Cameroon on an enjoyable Saturday evening. My "throwing of shapes" gets everybody's undivided attention and causes many a facial expression, mostly lost somewhere between consternation and downright hilarity. I'm sure I see one of them taking notes, and another making a phonecall. It is my tradition!

What a day.

Moonwashed

2009-11-06T10:08:00.000-08:00

In school today, the kids seem particularly pleased to see me. That's always nice. "Somebody said you have already left us!" I'm told. Turns out it is Tim (the Dutch volunteer) who is leaving today. I haven't seen him in a while and I fortuitously bump into him as he is arriving for the goodbyes. Good luck to him.

As I wait for my bus, I speak to a parent of one of my children, who is well behind the others, struggling to read and write properly. He is clearly upset, and wanted her moved back a year, but the teachers do not let this happen. I can understand his frustrations. I have noticed more than one child across the classes who is lagging behind. I'm sure most teachers try with them, but the system is very much set up to get the majority through. The child's father is an interesting character, who has sailed around the world, but now being redundant has added to his concerns about his daughter's education. The school I go to is at the lower end of the fee-paying ones, and he is desperate not to waste what money he has left.

I go to my favourite bookshop today. It's called "Books 'n' Things" and is in down-town Moliko. An American man ships containers of books here, for the greater good of the populous, though I doubt that many have left the shelves since their arrival. I visit my friend Mathias, who is in charge of operations. He is still insistent on that Palm Wine, and looks remarkably healthy for a man who is recovering from a very recent bout of Malaria. He is also very keen for me to have some "Bushmeat" ( locally shot animals from the forest). I ask if I will eat anything endangered. "No" he says with a laugh. "Well, I don't want any then". "No, no. You have to try the Porcupine, it is delicious." I'm in as long as I don't have to prepare it.

Books in bag, it's off to look for a present for Saturday's wedding. I find a nice plate set which is an instant winner. I get it gift wrapped at the store- The better and bigger looking my present, the less likely that the happy couple will notice that I'm not wearing any shoes. Quite looking forward to the whole thing now. Wonder if they'll be a punch up.

I invest in some Guavas on the way home, and decide to stop off at the nearby tourist office. It's very rustic looking with a lot of things in boxes. There isn't really anywhere to sit or even anything to look at either. Must confess it's all a bit strange. However, I do receive some useful assistance from one of the men there. I am looking at seeing some nature before I leave, but It will need to be just before I depart as a very long wet season has made the roads to Korup National Park a little bit dicey. I hope I can fit a trip in.

The electricity has been unreliable recently, and has been off for most of today. Mind you, you know you are somewhere foreign when you are under your mosquito net, reading or writing by candlelight. The net is becoming increasingly important as the pests are on the rise. Killed three last night. Soon there will be an entire squadron.

Bad news when I get home: The goat for tomorrow's ceremony has gone missing. Apparently, the person who was responsible for it did not tie it up properly, and now it has gone AWOL. There have been tears believe me. Reports that a substitute goat has been brought in remain unconfirmed. I am resigned to a bigger dollop of fish instead.

Not letting such news dampen our spirits, C and I go down to the pre-wedding family get together, downtown at the groom's parent's house. There's a fair crowd, accomodated by a set up shelter and chairs, as seems customary for the rainy season, which faces part of the house, with the groom and best man sitting outside on a sofa, facing the crowd. Certain family members act as comperes, making a few short speeches, doing some dances and chants, and generally getting the crowd going.

I'm only half surprised when Catherine springs up from next to me and starts working her own magic on the audience. I can say that she does this more than once over the course of the evening, and she is very successful at it. Traditions are observed; the Whisky is handed over to the bride's father; and everybody is in good spirits.

Then the "Guess The Bride" game begins: A succession of differing girls are paraded to the groom to see how well he recognises his future wife. The girls are of differing ages (some impossibly young) and they are encouraged to act it up a bit by strutting and wiggling in front of everybody. One particularly confident girls sits down next to the groom and insists for a good five minutes that he remembers her as his betrothed. She is, of course, an imposter, and is promptly dispatched. Finally, one arrives in a wedding dress, face covered by a veil and I naturally assume this to be her. Wrong again. By the time the actual bride appears, C has got the other (mean looking) compere in a bear hug and has wrestled her to the chair. After the fisiticuffs have finished, the bride is presented with a dress to match the groom's outfit. She changes and then the happy couple sit resplendent on the sofa, as the eating and drinking begin.

Suffice to say the food is excellent, my first glass of wine is a joy, and the beer is, well, beer. We leave reasonably early, and I peak into the nearby nightclub (called Jupiter) on the way home. Unsurprisingly, it is pretty empty- things like that only get going really, really late. We finally get a taxi up the road, and lying in bed I reflect on what a brilliant cultural experience tonight has been. I hope the wedding is a success tomorrow.

666

2009-11-05T04:59:00.000-08:00

Wake up this morning to the enthusiastic (some might say fanatical) preachings of a minister emanating from a radio outside my window. He sounds like a sort of scary version of the man who introduces Randy Watson in "Coming To America". As he delivers his sermon, I can't help feeling he's making it all sound a bit apocalyptic, or, at the very least, "Friday the 13th": "He's coming to get you! He's coming for you! He's coming for your wife! He's coming for your children! He's coming for your mother!!"; then rather bizarrely: "Throw out your water! Throw out all of your water!!" A bit more old testament than new. Whoever's listening to it seems to be getting the message, and the preacher commandeers the airwaves for quite some time.

I received some mail today! C has given me an invitation to a family wedding. "Just fill in your name in the blank bit" she tells me. The son (the groom) doesn't have the money to pay for the bash, and is relying on the family to sort it out. The last few nights has seen the extended family trying to reach a compromise on what should happen. After the first nights peace summit, NOBODY was going. "What did the groom say at the meetings?" I ask. "He was at Limbe, on his honeymoon" I am told. "But he's not even married yet!" I exclaim. C replies: "I know, it is our tradition." Sounds like divine confidence to me.

You have to love families. Take one of the most important occasions in two people's lives and then flog all enjoyment out of it, making it as political and as impersonal as possible. Not having the money for the wedding doesn't really help things either. It is open encouragement for meddling. Still, I hope they will be very happy together. The wedding is this Saturday, and I need to buy a present. I will also need to look for a tie. I don't even have a pair of shoes. I can see into my crystal ball now: At the wedding reception, the priest (looking at me) ordains one of his flock to: " Give that pale looking tramp over there some food, and move him along quickly." "That's one of the guests, Father."

I enjoy the late afternoon taking a stroll down the main lane of the market. In keeping with the size of Town, it's quite small, but has all kinds of local produce. Fish is very popular here, being near the sea, and it's often smoked. I have eaten fish nearly every day since I arrived, and I'm a once a season man when it comes to things with gills. I don't have the heart to tell C as it's so much cheaper than any other form of animal. When in Rome.... I just cry myself to sleep after the eighth day, and, hey, something else appears for a day instead. Beef tonight. I swear I have dreamed of a Gammon steak the last three nights in a row.

Other produce on display which is less traumitising for me include Okre, pulses, (big, hot looking) Peppers, Yams, Coco Yams, "Irish Potatoes" (don't know where this came from!), Ginger, dried Crayfish, Onions, and Sugarcane. Sweet corn has arrived, as have guavas very recently. The sweetcorn is being burnt to a crisp on drums all over Africa as I write- It's the way they eat it here. The Guavas are being harvested from every possible source- I saw a guy precariously wedged in a very flimsy looking tree in his garden the other day. The rest of the family where standing at the bottom shouting how much better a job they could be making of it. It was quite funny.

Random local saying or word of today: "Bad Fashion!"

Translation: What someone will say to reproach you after you've made a social foxy paw (i.e passed wind).

My Name Is Fingal O' Flahertie Wills, But You Can Call Me Ernest

2009-11-04T04:43:00.000-08:00

A taxi ride officially starts my day today, as it does most of the time. Taking a taxi here is not the same as back home. Here the taxis are shared, dropping off and picking up along the way. You want to avoid the front seat, as this will accommodate two people when the back three seats fill up, and it can be a bit of a squeeze. A number of these cabs are lovingly cared for, with artificial arrays of flowers and fruits adorning the dashboard and interior. Some even have lit up images of crosses and pictures of Jesus. Many have painted messages on ranging from the casual "Hey Baby!" right the way through to the more spiritual "God will save you!"

Getting into my taxi today, I find it funny that the taxi driver doesn't want to speak to me. Instead, I look at him through the open passenger window, and he looks back, tooting his answers at me on the horn. "Are you going to Fakoship?" Toot! "100 Francs?" Toot!! One toot meaning yes, I get in and off we go. Horns are highly prized here and must be used at every opportunity.

All taxis go down to Moliko (town centre), but not all taxis go up to Buea Town. This is where the funny hand signals play there part. My one for Buea is a combination of the traditional hitchhikers thumbing, and the special shake that the actor from Buffy and Little Britain used to do in the Nescafe adverts in the 80s (clearly, I'm too young to remember them, and was a told about them by an old person). God help me if I ever need to go anywhere else, as Buea Town is the only one I know. I can imagine an Italian footballer would probably make it all the way back to Naples using his considerable repertoire.

Walking back home I visit the local fruit stall sellers, who are mostly clustered together on the main street, in little wooden bays. They are always noticeabley very vocal in their efforts to sell their produce. I guess it must be the nature of it. I buy my usual bunch of bananas, a Paw paw slice, and a Pineapple twist. They also sell broken coconut, semi-peeled oranges, peanuts and Popcorn or "Puffcorn" as some people call it.

The evening is completed with a trip down the local to watch the Champion's League. Watching this here appears to be as important as going to church, and every bar looks busy. Instead of watching a six goal thriller in Manchester, I am forced to watch a dull draw in Milan. The power goes off for a good part of the second half, and sitting in darkness I chat to a local soldier stationed down the road.

The Sweetest Taboo

2009-11-03T03:51:00.000-08:00

Taking a stroll through the neighbourhood, I meet a group of young men playing a board game outside. Inquisitively, I go over to see what the game is. Turns out to be a sort 0f version of draughts called, erm, draughts. The rules are very different though, and I think you must get more points by slapping down your pieces as hard as you can. Knowing they are in the presence of a championship winning draughts man, they start acting all nervous and do not invite me for a game. Cards is occasionally played by the older men, and I will research this soon. Hopefully, I can find a really good local game to rival the Nepali classic Dumball.

Oh, It finally happened today. After well over three weeks, my luck has come to an end. I knew it had to eventually. Yes, you guessed it: Bob Marley finally found me (twice in one day!) Seeing he now knows where I live I am of the opinion that I will be hearing a lot of him from now on. In actual fact, to compound my misery, somebody else was singing a song of his as I naturally fled the scene of the first crime. I reckon I can deal with it, in time, as long as he doesn't tell his mate Jack Johnson my whereabouts.

On the subject of music, we spend our evening listening to a local radio station with a very eclectic playlist. Congolese and Nigerian music is very popular here, as is music from Benin. A number of the lyrics can be understood by certain people in Cameroon. Such music seems to be demising, with young people more inclined to high energy, fast tempo music, and Ghetto Rap. C reflects that the old days were the best, and has a wee dance to an old tune to prove she still has what it takes.

Traditional national languages differ from country to country in this area, like many other places. Unlike somewhere like Europe though, national barriers are often transcended by tribal connections and history. Therefore, a Cameroonian from any given tribe here might be able to go hundreds of miles in many directions and understand a little of what one group of people were saying, but nothing of the groups around them. Anthropologists must have a field day around here.

Not all the music tonight is African, and we get quite a good mix of top music. We get a little bit of Seal, Madonna, and a souped up version of Wonderwall, complete with original vocals. One weird things they often do when a song comes on the radio is to give it a temporary jungle drum beat. This quickly fades, only to come back briefly some time later. Most peculiar. When it comes to music, the western big hitters here are definitely: Phil Collins, Pariah Carey, and the number one, the queen of all she surveys, Switzerland's very own Celine Dion.

Random local word or saying of the day: "I will carry you there." Translation: I will not put you in a fireman's lift or give you a piggyback. Instead, I will take you there.

Mamma Mia!

2009-11-02T03:14:00.000-08:00

The day starts off well: brilliantly blue skies and all things bright. Very quickly, the storm clouds float over the mountain, stealing light which had previously promised so much. All of a sudden, it goes deathly dull, very quickly. Doors slam throughout the nearby village houses, as the mountain wind simultaneously picks up. The first rumble of thunder takes me by surprise-there are no distant warning rumbles. This first one seems like it tumbled down the roof.

WALLOP! The wind increases again, the heavens open up, and the lightning kicks into life. It's a thrilling show, watching people scatter in all directions: those coming back from their farms, loaded with produce; those out to meet friends and family; those preparing for church; those preparing for the pub. All are treated the same and are dispatched to the nearest possible shelter. Nothing really happens here when it rains. Life just stops, and the streets become empty. Within an hour, the skies have cleared, and people tentatively start reappearing from their temporary refuge, umbrellas at the ready, just in case.

One thing that has struck me almost immediately from the very first time I entered Cameroon is the number of Albino Africans. I've been fortunate enough to see a number of African countries, and none of them have the concentration of albinos that Cameroon has. It is really surprising. Can it be explained through science? I don't know. Thankfully, the idea of them being trapped spirits, ghosts or whatever you will is dying out, rather like the concept of witch doctors, but much quicker. From my experience, the albino women tend to be very sleight, whilst the men are usually pretty big. Like I say, this is just my own observation, but I have yet to see a big woman or a small man.

What i can say with conviction is that one of the senior class teacher at school- Mr Nduka Ndive (no duff) has been most welcoming and helpful. He's married with a (black) daughter, who also attends the school. The daughter came into my class the other day to speak to her father. One of the children asked him how it was possible that he was white, yet his daughter was black. Tough one really. A bit like the old smart arse joke, when at the end of any type of meeting (work, recreation etc..) at the point of "Any questions?" one wise guy wants to know how a brown cow, eating green grass, can give white milk. There's always at least one.

I Say!

2009-11-01T04:40:00.000-08:00

Great to have a lie into until the princely time of 8.30AM. It's a leisurely start to the day, doing boring little jobs that always seem to accumulate.

Take a cab down to the Mount Merry Health Clinic, where S gets a sometimes troublesome wrist looked at. I notice on the wall (amidst the many pictures of the Pope) a sign exclaiming that "75% of all medical bills will be paid if you are a member of the Buea Diocese". I believe that the vast majority of people in Africa are religious because they choose to be, and this is their path to enlightenment and salvation. I also can't help feeling that some are religious because they simply can't afford not to be. The clinic looks clean and efficient, but I wouldn't want to stay here. If you're unfortunate enough to require admittance, a private room, minus any health charges, is 3 quid a night, and a shared one is about 80 pence.

I go down with C to the local neighbourhood of Soppa to meet a local chief, who has some sort of agreement with C to farm some of her father's land. He, and his wife, are very affable characters. One of their sons is in Spain doing something or other, but I don't ascertain what exactly as he can't seem to understand what I'm saying. On the way back to the taxi, we catch some EPL in a friendly little bar. The chief gets the drinks in and I initially refuse my bottle of water, before deferring to African generosity. C reproaches me later for not immediately accepting it. I ask her what I should do if I really don't like what is being offered. She informs me that I should ask for something else instead. S sits and disagrees with her. All around the world, attitudes change, and young and old people see things in very different lights.

Walking back to the house, we meet a number of local characters, some of whom have had a cheeky couple. One of the inebriated, shouts to me that he's C's husband, and then changes this to her brother. The other one of the comedy duo is my namesake (important in Africa), and on discovering this fact, gets me in a bear hug and attempts some kind of continental cheek kiss thing, but they'll definitely be none of that sort of thing. I'm not bally French, you know!

People here are so friendly and genuinely interested in visitors. I'm always taken aback a little by just how warm the ubiquitous "welcome" greeting always is. I wonder how different an African's arrival might be greeted by many in the UK and elsewhere.

There were two more funerals today (in a very small town). We met a scattering of mourners during our town meet and greet on the street walk (C is very well known in the area). When we get back home afterwards, C says that one of the men was a brother of the deceased (his sister). Apparently, she had recently questioned why both her brother's wives had died in slightly surprising circumstances. Now she is no more herself. I can honestly say, though, I looked at the brother at the time, and really felt that his mourning clothes had a really "lived in" look about them.

Ya Ya Ya Coco Yambo....

2009-10-31T05:53:00.000-07:00

Children in Africa are unbelievably energetic. They are always delighted to supply an answer, if they know it, and usually supply one even when they haven't a clue. I think that's great- there is never a dull lesson here. Sometimes their sheer enthusiasm spills into complete chaos and the noise is often deafening. I ask them today why things are even noiser than usual, and why everybody seems to move seats when I am in class teaching. One child at the back tells me it's because I don't beat them. Volunteers don't beat the kids. "Do you want me to have a quieter class by beating you" I ask rhetorically, thinking I will know the answer. "Yes, we want you to beat us" they say in unison, without a hint of sarcasm.

On the way home from school, I meet a local market trader by the roadside, who quickly beckons me over. Thinking he is trying to sell me something, I am surprised to see that he just wants me to help him put his exceptionally heavy looking bag of vegetables on his noggin, complete with towel to soften the pain.

He's a scary looking fellah (from a village called Manu- straight up), and according to the laws of the land, is carrying his mandatory blade. He tells me he will sell his bag for 9000 CFA (about 12 quid) at the market, and do the same again tomorrow. He finally does offers to sell me some Guinea pigs, which, apparently, will make an equally good pet or first course. When I decline, he offers to show me his Bull Terrier guard dog. Let me see: A scary man offering to take me to his house and show me his probably equally scary dog. Hmmm. Sounds like an offer I can refuse. You have to love random tourist- local interaction. I do anyway.

Complete the day by helping C write a letter to one of her former guests, an American, who has a great obsession with the Viper. I learn that there are quite a few of the blighters about, with dead ones sometimes sold as "bushmeat", fetching about 2,000CFA (or 3 Pounds) for a big one. The poison of this snake is potentially fatal and the glands are removed before you tuck in. Tastes like chicken, I'm sure.

Unsurpisingly, the Viper is greatly feared, despite it's natural inclination for solitude, and heaven help you if you stumble upon one. C saw one on the way to the farm, telling me that it "ran", and so did she, but not in the same direction! I'm sure survival rates are greatly reduced by the perpetual faith people entrust in Witchcraft or Witch Doctors. Once biten, one remedy is to pierce the skin and bleed the blood of the victim using a Viper's fang as the scalpal. This must be about as about as effective as the Hollywood idea of sucking the poison out at it's entrance: not very.

Et In Arcadia Ego

2009-10-30T10:35:00.000-07:00

It struck me last night just how perfect the temperature has been the last week or so. It's always shorts and T shirt weather, with the occasional sunny spell allowing me to top up a little on the tan. The humidity has been pretty manageable with the precipitation more in the form of cooling mist and fog, with a heavy downpour occurring every now and again. Things naturally cool in the evening as it gets dark (about 6pm) and the sheet and blanket offers perfect protection from the ever so slight chill in the air. All I need now is a bow and arrow for the local church bell toller to ensure ideal sleeping conditions.

I can feel a change in the atmospheric conditions a comin' though, and the monsoon winds of the wet seasons are beginning to be chased away by the hotter Harmattan winds of the dry season.

Dorothy, the german lady who was staying previously returns to us, after her three day hike up and down the mountain. She's delighted to have done it and delighted to be back. It's very interesting seeing her photos and listening to her experiences. She was fortunate with the weather and got some great snaps. The wooden sign at the summit is one of my facebook profiles shots, and I'm looking forward to seeing it again. Dorothy is engaged to a Cameroonian, and C will take her to his village tomorrow. My new German friend is great company, and we have quite a laugh, but she refuses to belief that myself and Thomas Palmer did the walk in two days when I stayed here last: "Impossible!".

Watch Out For the Plantains

2009-10-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

Computing is the order of the day today. All the volunteers place an importance on it, and are more than happy to help out. We get to use the laptops brought in for the "One laptop, one child" initiative. The computers are definitely second hand and using the mouse on some of them is so infuriating. I put it akin to trying to crack open a safe with a stethoscope, whilst a full brass band marches over your head- the band being the children in this case. The kids love computing, learning all the functions of word processing. Hopefully, an internet connection will eventually be installed and then classes can incorporate these little green gems into all classes.

The final of the football tournament is quickly resolved with representative players from all four semi final teams participating in a mixed final. Play gets under way amidst a scattering of balloons, " fair play" and "teamwork" signs, and the booming tones of an MC/match commentator. A small seated tent area is erected for spectators and I take my seat just as the game kicks off.

Barely ten minutes into the game, a n exceptionally heavy fog descends and I can barely see ten yards in front. The game somehow continues, I'm genuinely not sure how. Need I say that it ends goalless? Probably not- I'm almost seeing a reason for basketball. Anyway, there's a fun penalty shootout to finish off with, and everybody takes part this time around. The general consensus is that it has been a successful and fitting end to a few weeks of football. I'm glad it has concluded this way after a few ropey moments, and a lot of invested time and effort.

With the final kicks, the temperature plummets as the fog gets thicker and the darkness arrives. It's turning into an "Orcadian" evening as the rains starts belting down, and I'm pretty reluctant to leave my taxi on the way back. I take the flip flops off and leg it barefooted up the road but to no avail- I end up getting completely soaked.

I'll Take the Gammon

2009-10-28T07:52:00.000-07:00

I think I have finally found a place that is free of Coke/ Pepsi or McDonalds. It's taken years of searching but it appears these brands haven't got their hooded claws into SW province. The alternative to McDonalds is a thing called Soya. Ironically, it's made from barbecued meat, which is skewered. Vegetarians beware! It's a roadside delicacy cooked over an oil drum with lots of spices. The type of meat very much depends on the location and reputation of the seller. Snail seems to be very much in- this is a predominantly french country after all. So, if you think you've got yourself a bargain..... Soya is pretty generic all over Africa, often going by different names. Some place simply call it "meat on a stick". Fair enough really.

A popular energy drink around here is a little number called "Malta Guinness". This is a non alcoholic, dark, very rich and yeasty drink, which by all accounts, will give you the strength of a lion. Like it's alcoholic cousin, you will find it all over the continent. I have rather grown to like it as an afternoon pick me up but have yet to feel any more liony. Note to Guinness connoisseurs, who incessantly complain about alcoholic Guinness not travelling well: Don't drink it here. You will explode. Here's to Martha!

I hear unfortunate news about the local soccer tournament. Both semi finals were played recently. In one, the score was at 2-0 when the losing set of supporters decided to invade the pitch, and break the goals (think Wembley in the 70s). The hooligans were duly chased down the street by the other set, who threw rocks at them, as they went, for good measure. This left officials and volunteers cutting a rather sparse looking crowd.

Meanwhile in the other semi-final, the game ended 0-0 after both legs. So to penalties, or so you might have thought. Both teams refused to take their kicks, packed up their boots, and duly went home for their tea. Therefore, the final is very soon and there are no finalists. Hopefully some compromise will be reached and the competition will end successfully.

Try to get the household Virgin Mary wall clock going this evening. I put some new batteries in it and the things go berserk, playing a medley of Beethoven, and Yankee Doddle Dandy. We continue to listen to a whole host of tunes from around the world before it fizzles out. I try to explain to C that it must be some sort of "sign", but she looks unmoved. In a country this religious, they must expect such things to be a lot more grandiose .

......Sales update from the shop..... A litre of Palm nut Oil, one lollipop and two eggs.......

Must Be In the Water

2009-10-27T07:38:00.000-07:00

A class teacher comes and sits in on a lesson today. Before I know it, his head is slumped on the desk, and I believe he might even be asleep. How he can sleep with the kids shouting at each other, and me shouting at the kids is anyone's guess. I don't take it too personally, as I haven't really strayed off topic, and he earlier informed me of a tiring weekend, making bricks and doing some gardening. That'll do for me.

Children here have mastered the art of shouting really loudly at each other, regardless of their proximity. The secret? Plenty of practice. Playing cards? Let's shout. Taking a stroll? Let's shout. Doing some gardening? Yep, let's shout. I'm always met with a confused look when I ask them: "Why are you shouting at each other?" The only time they don't shout is when they address the rest of the class with an answer to a question. Then I can't hear them. Maybe I'm going deaf.

Help the PE teacher install a jump board ( a piece of wood) for the new long jump pit, before using the afternoon to research African Geography. Measuring a river isn't as straightforward or accurate as it might sound. Probably should have done some of this research before I visited half these places the last two times I was in Africa.

Random thought for the day: Why are so many Home Economics teachers complete gorgons? Answers on a postcard to "The White Man", Buea Town, SW Province, Cameroon.

It's A Bloody Aardvark!

2009-10-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

Took a funny turn last night, waking up and and lying there feeling very rough for an hour. This culminated in a quick dash to the toilet for a "Wallace" (and Grommit). Apologies to those of a weak disposition. Promptly felt fine and went back to sleep. Most peculiar.

All sorts going on in the neighbourhood today, with sounds coming from every direction. Across the road, there's a drum 'n' choir rehearsal occurring in a shed. There's some singing noises eminating from the side of the hill, though I can't see where from. The church is probably the loudest, but they're getting extra special help in keeping me awake. Over the music, Suzanne tells me it's never too late to save myself. "Does this apply to everyone, including Catholics?" I reply.

Pop down to the Internet, having to step over what looks like the world's biggest rat in the process, if indeed it is a rat, lying dead on the road. It must be top five at least. I don't mean big as in European rat big. I mean big as in the size of a cat. I describe it to the family when I get back, and they tell me it's either a mole or a dog.

I think I'm the only person in the Cyber Cafe not participating in the Don Williams singalong. The artists do vary from time to time, but our Don is the house favourite. He's from Brechin, you know. People here just start singing whenever they feel like it- all very spontaneous.

Laughed out of the pub following the football by what must be the Buea Town Liverpool Supporters Club. "Come Back" they shout in unison as I wing my way out the door at the end. Scoundrels, one and all. Naturally check my wallet and my shoes are still there as I make good my escape.

We have our first guest staying and, unsurprisingly, she is from Germany. Dorothy is here to climb the mountain, as most of the tourists who come here do. Wouldn't like to be doing it now. It will be pretty wet and cold up there. Hope she does OK.

Oooompahpah

2009-10-25T05:36:00.000-07:00

It's the weekend, therefore it must be a funeral. Don't mean to sound glib or flippant, but that does seem to be an unwritten rule here. Another person C knew died earlier in the week and was buried yesterday. We just go to the actual burial today on the deceased's family land. Being at the back of very large crowd, we see practically nothing. However, listening to the supplied music, I have sneaky feeling that it is the same brass band.

The tradition appears to be that all people from the neighbourhood attend the burial, whether they went to the service or not, or even If they didn't know them well. This is to ensure no-one in the area looks forgotten when their time comes. Consequently, there is a real mishmash of clothing on display. Some women look very smart in the traditional, colourful matching African dress- top combos, complete with contrasting head dress. Whatever traditional clothing men used to where is very much replaced by the black suit, or at least black shirt. Other people look like they're not sure what they are attending: one woman has a skin tight black leggings and black scarf, finished off by a grey "Canadian Drinking Team" t-shirt.

We make a brief visit to the cyber cafe, to read and reply to all of C's emails from around the world. A walk next door to the bar, and C is regaling me with some very illuminating, and frankly unprintable, tales of white/black people interaction stories from recent years. There is inevitably football on in the background. C watches Chelsea score and two black Chelsea players celebrating together. "The blacks are winning!" I'm informed.

Pushing The Boundaries

2009-10-24T05:17:00.000-07:00

The skies are brilliant blue today, making P.E sweaty work toiling under the sun. Must admit to "taking five" under a small tree every now and again despite the fact it's still not 9am. We play a game of football where players have a number, and then a number is called. They have to run around the pitch and then score in the opposing child's goal. They really get into it and competition is fierce. Second is certainly first loser here.

After Lessons, Uncle Junior ( all none class teachers are called this or Aunt), the PE teacher, takes me to a local watering hole, within crawling distance from the school, which serves Palm Wine. The place is very conspicuous shed on the end of someone's house. The wine has a mild, milky appearance. It's taste is quite pleasant, though I have yet to determine what it tastes like. The brew gets poured into a reused beer or pop bottles from a canister. You get a mug and away you go.

Finally manage to do some blogging today, before walking to the Banana Pitch, once more, for a semi-final match. The game ends 0-0 again. Why don't they make the smaller goals bigger?

When I return home, C shows me some clippings and pictures from yesteryear. One of them details the death of one of her husbands in a canoe accident at sea in 1977. He had survived a similar situation canoeing to Nigeria some three months previously , where he was one of only 25 people out of 140 to be saved. This time he was not so lucky.

I have a quiet night tonight with a very good book, and the BBC world service (in FM) completing it.

Is this your Card?

2009-10-23T04:29:00.000-07:00

Physical Education today and the children are almost needing to be scraped from the ceiling. They enjoy the catching warm up games and then it's on to sprint practice. All of the running around is a great outlet for them and the races are taken very seriously.

Introduce my card games during their lunch break. "Donkey" is clearly number one, closely followed by "Pairs", with "Happy Families" lagging well behind. They have yet to grasp the concept of the latter, and it should take off once they give me a chance to explain the rules. Dominoes is also going down a storm and attracts considerable interest from teachers and pupils alike.

Computing in the afternoon goes well, and the classes listen very attentively before receiving their mini laptops. They are so focused in their efforts to copy a passage on the board, that levitating off the ground and flying out the window wouldn't raise an eyebrow.

A visiting nurse arrives to give everybody a Yellow Fever shot as there have been confirmed cases in the area recently. She offers to give me one, but has run out of certificates- no certificate, no point. Anyway, I'm still covered (just) and don't want to overdo the thing. I could see it now: "Hey! Whats up with him?". "Oh, he overdosed on Yellow Fever again. Can't seem to leave the stuff alone."

Come Over, Be Patient And Don't Worry

2009-10-22T04:04:00.000-07:00

Feeling quite extraordinary today. I might even skip to school today. The recent weather has been pretty chilly and, dare I say it, almost unpleasant. This has done wonders for my energy levels; people from Scotland have gone and colonised many parts of the world. I think they always move to the coldest part of the region simply to complain about the weather.

Attempt mission impossible, by getting the class to sit still and follow a series of instructions. At the start the teacher asks me casually If I can: "just take the class for an extra two hours". With nothing planned I naturally agree. It takes all of that the time to carry out my lesson. One of my old teachers always used to say: "Read the question". How right he was.

Said energy levels suitably drained (that didn't last long), I hand over to the Germans for computing and arrow my way to the nearest pub. Sitting in the village bar, which is not quite "The Dog and Duck", I people watch. The small things are important. It comes to my mind that I could write a score of blogs just looking at people here. Whether I could convey them in any comprehensible and interesting fashion is a different matter.

Meet a friendly young fellow by the name of Romeo walking back to town and he tells me he met Samuel Eto, Cameroon's super hero, on the pitch we are walking past. "He gave me 20,000 Francs, and everybody wanted it, so I gave it to my mum".

Under African Skies

2009-10-21T03:42:00.000-07:00

Complete the marking today at school today. The kids will receive their grades over the next few days and these will count very much towards their future education. It's a reading comprehension for english which most of them understand. It always helps. Fail again in my plot to catch up with this blog. I am thwarted at every turn.

I somehow end up with nine young kids of differing abilities at SOW today, but it's fun getting them to draw pictures and write the words in chalk underneath. They're pretty happy to show me what they can do and I even see a "ladder". Kind of hard to gauge how far some of the kids have come for the lesson. Most will live quite nearby, yet I wonder how far kids in Scotland would walk to draw pictures and write words on a misty chalkboard. I guess education is like anything- the more you get of it, the more indifferent you become. Then again, maybe the kids have just come to laugh at the white people.

Overall, a good, tiring day and as I walk home in the dark after my taxi drops me off, you can't help marvelling how spectacular the sky looks tonight. The stars are brilliant and the Milky Way appears to be sitting on the shoulder of the mountain, taking a rest from all of its endlessness.

Darjeeling

2009-10-20T03:12:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I should explain a bit about the layout of the place I'm living in. Being part of West/Central Africa, the climate is usually very hot and very humid. I would probably describe the climate of this region as the most uncomfortable I have travelled in. Heat + Humidity= 1 sweaty Musungo. Beau is a fairly large and well known town in the southwest region of the country, about an hours drive from the economic heart that is Douala City. You make a steady climb of about 850 metres up to get to Buea from sea level and the comparable freshness and coolness is a welcome relief. I guess you could describe the town as a empirical hill station, almost temperate.

It is no surprise to find the region was colonised first by the Germans and then by the Brits. The Germans left their bakeries, beer and architecture, whereas the Brits left Soccer and the language. I wouldn't say that the main town is very attractive, more functional like a US style town built along the highway. This elongation lasts for several miles as you climb up slowly to the base of Mount Cameroon (or Mount Fako) and what the locals specifically call "Town"- the small place I live.

Buea Town is a very manageable size, with most of what I need. Even though I am not much higher than elsewhere, the conditions are disproportionately milder. It certainly has less mosquitoes. I like it up here in the mist and wouldn't want to live in anywhere else. Plus I get to say I'm right next to an active volcano- last activity about 2001.

When I summited last time we visited the after effects of this activity was very noticeable, and very impressive. You walk through the very lunar-like stretches that used to be larger parts of mountainside, now blown to smithereens and scattered across the region. As you descend, you follow the lava trail that snakes from the top all the way down to Limbe and into the sea. This has transformed into a pumice type rock that has maintained the appearance of a flowing river. It doesn't flow now, of course, and gives the appearance of water, suspended in time.

It's All Coming Back To Me

2009-10-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

Feeling a bit jaded after the exertions of the weekend and it feels like a humourless dream when my phone wakes me up with "Sunday Morning" by Maroon 5. I wish it was Adam. I end up marking the oldest classes exam papers from last week,. I even get some to do for homework. I mark english, geography, civics(government stuff) and moral duty and human rights.

SOW is rained off today-kids don't come when it rains and I can tell you it hammered down today. We are nearing the end of the wet season, which seems to last for 3-4 months. By December, skies will be blue and things will be hot, damn hot. There has been a lot of rain since I arrived and it never appears to be too far away. The views of the mountain have been regularly obscured by clouds.

Walk into town this evening. Things are surprisingly busy- most shops are still open and lots of people are milling about. Old people are sitting on their porches, kids are playing in the dirt, men are sitting in bars, and women are carrying all sorts of things on their heads. It strikes me just how more sociable places are when people live in a climate which is warm.

There is no such thing as street lighting here and negotiating back in the dark is a bit risky, particularly with the standard of driving around here. Fortunately, a distant thunderstorm helps light the path ahead towards a comfy bed and much needed rest.

Thank-you Dr Livingstone

2009-10-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

A very lazy day today. Things in Buea really slow down on a Sunday. Most people are either in church or in the pub. Suzanne and I make the 30 minute drive to Limbe, a beach town favoured by local and white tourists alike, looking to escape the rat race for the weekend. It's nice to finally see the place and feel the sea breeze again. The place has a famous wildlife sanctuary and botanical gardens, which I hope to visit next time.

We don't stay too long and we're soon back in town with the addition of a blind man who was looking at walking for miles in the dark to get to his destination. We drop him off and take in the main bar in the town for a quick beer and a listen to some bone shakingly loud local music. This is the biggest bar around yet nobody seems to know the name of the place. I don't think it has one.

We walk back home and meet a young girl in floods of tears, waving her arms about. We soon find out that the girl is announcing the death of the daughter of the man buried yesterday. She was a widow with a young child, and, apparently, had not been sick recently. It is quite possible that the recent grief had been too much for her. She was only 34 years old.

Great White Hunter

2009-10-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning sees the volunteers visiting the local villages to witness the competition's footballers undertaking their "clean up" programmes in their respective villages. It's part of the agreement under the rules of the competition. As you might imagine, some teams are taking it more seriously than others.

We also take a drive around a nearby tea plantation in the surrounding foothills. A lot of people undertaking the backbreaking work live on site. They get their food and accommodation provided for them and the princely sum of "peanuts" on top of that. I think nearly all of them couldn't spell "final salary pension".

Arrive back in time for the funeral service of C's uncle in the neighbourhood church. The service is very vocal with the visit of two other church choirs. After the service, we follow the sirened hearse the short walk to his family compound, where he is buried. The sombre mood is partially lifted by what must be described as an only partly musical brass band.

Their efforts are interrupted by the sporadic and loud sound of gunfire VERY nearby. It transpires that the deceased was a big hunter and the guys around the side of the house are related to his contemporaries, and are giving him their own send-off. Before I know it, the locally made shotgun is in my hands, and I blast off a shell in respect. We stay for a bit before wandering up to the local bar for drinks and then home.

You Did What?!

2009-10-16T05:53:00.000-07:00

Preparation day today. I create a giant map of Africa to put on the wall of the one of the older children's classrooms, and hopefully role out a few lessons using it. A lot of kids don't seem to know much about their continent, other than the "colonial masters". I think this is missing the point somewhat. Think Okavango, Pyramids, Lake Victoria, Sahara and trading kingdoms of Southern Africa. Awesome.

I ponder all such things as I take haircut at my local barber "Frankies". I ask him if he finds it difficult to cut white people's hair. He contemplates. "Yes..... but not impossible." He then proceeds to make a very fine job if i say so myself. Its great to see someone give you really good service and just take a pride in what they do. Can't help laughing at his "Time For Viagra" clock nestling on the wall next to Ronaldo's poster. Did he collect vouchers to get it, and if so, would you advertise the fact?

Finally get some western batteries as the local ones are pretty hopeless- You know they're not up to much when you can crush them with you fingers. Now i will be able to "snap people", as Catherine puts it. I love the expression. "Beep" is my current second favourite and means to call someone e.g "I beeped you earlier, but you didn't even notice" Ha Ha.

No sooner are the Duracells in place than C informs me that the Ju Ju Man is coming! The Ju Ju man is a sort of spiritual character who appears at funerals in the form of a man replete with grass attire, some paint and a great big wooden African mask (sorry sis, don't think I could fit it in my bag). He heads up the funeral cortege and it just so happens one is going past now (C's uncle). She insists on hiding out and papping Ju Ju without getting caught- "if you do, it will be big money". We choose the small store in front of the house and I manage to get a good shot of him through the lollipop stands on the counter. Suitably impressed, C rattles off a few efforts of her own. She loves her camera.

Later on at the viewing, she snaps the corpse and then the very unmerry widow. "Why are you crying?" she asks her with incredulity. "Your husband is already dead". "Everybody was laughing" she tells me.

No SOW on wheels today due to the annual PTA meeting at the school. I attend the first half but leave before it gets really juicy with the parents question session. I'm informed they always have lots to complain about. As I walk out the door, the minutes from last years meeting are read out and detail the "One chicken, one child" scheme from last year, where children took home a chicken and took care of it: "Unfortunately, last year some parents made their children lie about the fate of the chicken....". The meeting is serious and it's good to see so many parents taking an interest in their kids education.

Walk down to the "Banana pitch" (no, it isn't banana shaped) in a nearby village and take in the latest installment of the competition. The half time talk centres on abortion. The game ends in a 0-0 stalemate, as the sun sets over the plantation, and we all merrily trot back into town.

!

2009-10-15T05:33:00.000-07:00

Get the hands dirtied today, as well as blistered. There's a community garden/farm initiative being undertaken within the school grounds where plants are grown and funds are raised. I decide to do a wee turn cultivating a patch and helping with the dig for victory. It's pretty tough going and things aren't helped by a meaty bite from an angry, and now homeless soldier ant. Fortunately, it's still quite foggy today and the temperature stays reasonably cool. What is grown here is very seasonal between the wet and dry seasons. Catherine suggests Coco Yams, Green Beans, Ochre and Peppers.

"Schools on Wheels" is an after-schools project which takes all the volunteers into nearby villages, encouraging the local kids to come along and learn a bit more. Of course, not every child can afford books and other basics and some just come for the "craic" and the skipping ropes and other things we hand out towards the end.

One of the rare teenagers to attend arrives with his computer studies homework. My assistance is pretty limited but we hobble together something. I promise to take one of the school laptops next week. He mentions that he has hardly touched a computer before, so computer studies must be pretty tough going for him. What's an "Extranet" anyway? Sounds like I don't need it.

Tosca-who?

2009-10-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

A really good observation day today. A bit weird doing the local high five with the teacher in front of the whole class, but that's what they do in Buea. Mr Livinius is a good teacher and a good fellah. The kids like him, and he encourages effort and young minds to think for themselves. So it comes as a complete surprise when he starts beating the kids with a small hosepipe. The kids don't like it, and it must hurt, but on the surface it doesn't appear to affect them much. I saw one kid smiling, with her hand up get a beating for some infringement. As soon as he'd walked off the hand was back up and the exact same smile was back on. Instantly. It's just a way of life here, but I've heard it's one that is dying out.

It's interesting to see what the kids are learning and the revision includes maths, english, history and geography. Some of the questions stump me. I mean, can you name me the first cartographer to draw a semi accurate map of the world, or what the name of the wars between Rome and Carthage were called? If not, just ask any self respecting 11 year old in Cameroon and they will tell you.

I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass

2009-10-13T11:36:00.000-07:00

Into school today for the usual 8.30am start. The school is a good 25 minutes walk from my taxi drop off point, and it is a nice dander through villages, vegetation and plantations. It's a nice morning and I decide to make the stroll. It's kind of a "quiet" day today due to revision, but a senior class teacher called Mr Livinius informs me I can observe him tomorrow.

Make it back into town and decide to watch some nursery classes in the junior branch of the organisation. Lunch is a piece of bread and a cup of cocoa and I'm very grateful for it. The emphasis on teaching is very much reinforcement through drill, rhyme and song. The teacher makes all the kids sing the national anthem and I can honestly say her effort is by far the worst. One kid has everybody in stitches with his unique style and voice. I can't help laughing either. I hope he goes into comedy and becomes a superstar.

Over the course of these first few days, I've got to meet the rest of the volunteers who are here for a variety of reasons. They all live very near UAC headquarters in shared accommodation. The majority appear to come from Germany and currently Max, Maggi and Leo are flying the flag. The girls are here for a year and have just arrived recently, whereas Max is on a sort of internship and will depart soon. Also departing soon is Tim from Holland who is completing part of his studies. They're good, affable, active people, who are easy to talk to.

Sow What?

2009-10-12T11:22:00.000-07:00

My first day with UAC today. I'll be helping out at their local primary school in local village called Jamadjainle (think jam 'n' jelly). All the classes have their six weekly exam this week, so the work this week will probably be observational only. It's a new school with a role of about 300 odd kids (there not actuallly odd) aged 5-12 years. I am introduced to the entire school in a packed, and I mean packed hall. I can barely move, pinned against a wall by the most energetic kids you can imagine.

Response to the news of my arrival is considerably more muted than what can only be described as ecstatic responses for announcement of a new roundabout and a small consignment of 1960's Singer sowing machines. Ho hum. The teachers are very welcoming and some are keen to hear about schooling in Scotland. I hope things go well and one thing is certain- I am going to need my sleep. Curse those bells.

The Beautiful Game

2009-10-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

Off to church today to pray for my many sins, and for forgiveness for all those missed Sunday services. Almost ironically, I get a break from the dreaded very early alarm call, with it being replaced with a much more social 7am blast instead.

Suzanne, her baby and myself tootle off down the road like a little family. The service is quite lively and vocal, though not quite the evangelical stuff of the U.S. There are a huge amount of churches in this part of the world and many people are very religious. It's a sellout today and we get two of the last seats as the service begins. There seems to be a small team of preachers who take it in turns for the two and a half hour service- yes, that's 2.5 of your earth hours. It goes by surprisingly quickly. Despite the din of the service, two people manage to get public warnings for falling asleep.

We get back to the house just in time for a neighbour's christening party with food and drink being the order of the day. Katherine forces me to hand over this Cassava (some Africans answer to the spud) stuff to the family who insist on coming around sometime to thank me properly. My fraudulent feelings are further exacerbated when a maths teacher genuinely informs me how much he loves Britain and the British. He is very unstinting in his praise of the honest, hard working British people. I try to inform him that it's not always exactly like that without sounding too treacherous, but he's having none of it and continues to gush.

I'm spared further embarrassment by a call from the UAC director calling me to tell a local football tournament is starting in 30 minutes and I should come down out of the clouds to watch it. The tournament is an initiative undertaken by one of the German volunteers, using soccer as a mean to promote social collectivism and moral responsibility. At the opening address, instead of the usual thanking those who have attended and "shame about the weather" type comments (it does start to rain), he goes straight on the offensive demanding to know where his tools are from last year's scheme. He finishes by ordering that there be no repeat of last year's mass brawl, which didn't quite encapsulate the "Espirit D' Core" of the competition.

Bokova village lose 1-0 on a simply astonishing pitch. The main road runs through one side of the pitch and there's a spiritual tree in front of one of the goals-it can never be chopped down. Just incredible. I imagine any tie on this pitch is determined by the team with the least broken necks.

D-Day Part I

2009-10-10T08:10:00.000-07:00

Super Saturday has arrived. This is it. The big one. Cameroon's first of two days of destiny has arrived. After a poor start, the "Indominatable Lions" are edging towards South Africa 2010, and a win today against Togo will pushy them that bit nearer. And it's being beamed live and exclusive in to my local pub's 24 inch TV. To contain my excitement, I decide to visit a bookshop for some books.

Matthias, the store manager happily informs me that he spent 14 years of his life in California during and after college, when he played first division college soccer. He says he met Kanu, oh, and most of the world cup squads from 1994. He must really like Kanu. Matthias knows where to get the best palm wine in town. This is a local favourite, one that I have yet to try. You can drill it from the bigger trees or chop down the smaller ones and drip the wine into a small container at the chopping down point. It slowly drains out and apparently the middle containers will give you the best booze. I think I will take him up on his offer sometime.

He is accurate with his prediction that the streets will be empty for the game and it unfolds in to a pretty comfortable three nil win for the Lions. Just one win away now. After taking in the game in a local bar in Town, I wonder up past the Lord Nelson, Freeze and Coconut Island. Home Jeeves!

The Bells Esmerelda, The Bells!

2009-10-09T07:39:00.000-07:00

There are a number of things I vividly remember from my previous visit here, and the daily 4.45am bell tolling (Christianity's equivalent to the Call to Prayer) from the VERY nearby church is definitely one of them. I thought only Islam inflicted this kind of thing on the eternally damned? Still, it was probably a Scotsman who brought the whole thing here. Bloody colonialism. I knew there must have been a downside.

My first day is spent looking into volunteering possibilities, with a local charity called United Action for Cameroon, who have a local nursery/primary school, and various community projects my choice. Looks like a pretty organised outfit, who have placed over 250 volunteers since its creation. More of them to follow.

Katherine's daughter Suzanne has a small shop in front of the house that sells household stuff and the day is completed by taking over the reigns as she looks after her baby. I am proud to announce the sale of a torch/lighter, a bar of soap (to myself), whisky in a plastic pouch (sacraligious, i know, but at 15p a pop, who cares?) and some Bon Bons. I might not have a G-G-G-Granville, but eat your heart out Arkwright).

Isn't It Midnight, On The Other Side Of The World?

2009-10-08T07:03:00.000-07:00

Don't get me wrong, I liked Cameroon the last time I was here. That's why I decided to come back. Having said that, Douala "International" Airport is not the place you want to arrive just after midnight on a balmy Wednesday morning. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens after my flight from Nairobi is cancelled and I'm rescheduled some 12 hours later. The upside is a little trip down memory lane sipping a Tusker in Nairobi. The last time I did this (quite recently) I was about to start camping (the excitement was intents, ahem), but this time I must be in one of the best hotels in town.

After making it from Nairobi, common sense dictates spending an uncomfortable night on a bench in said airport rather than venturing into the dark negotiating the touts and god knows what else. This airport is so ropey that you are surrounded by the hawkers before you have cleared customs or got your Lois Vutton matching travel bags from the carousel! An albino tout directs me to the safest part of the place, yet it still remains one of those "WTF am I doing here?" moments, with the mosquitos buzzing around my ears and some local fellahs looking at me, and whispering far more often than they should be. How rude.

I survive the night and it's a pretty smooth transition into Douala, to a shared taxi rank and the 70 minute journey to Buea, on the edge of imposing Mount Cameroon. We only get stopped five times by the security forces, which it is a personal best (for least times searched). Having stayed there before, I almost negotiate the way to my accommodation. Sadly, I get it wrong by one and almost end up asking the former President of Cameroon if he's still doing bed and breakfast. My host catches site of me beforehand and I avoid immediate deportation. She hasn't changed a bit, especially the laugh. The rest of the day is a three year recap, or rather a recap of three years, followed by oodles of sleep. I'm glad to have made it.