Day 77

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Here's a picture of a cute little girl in Bakingali (it's the only picture I managed to upload to flickr without any issues) Enjoy!

Day 68

Mt. Cameroon stands at 13,255 ft (4040m). It is an active volcano and is the highest point in West and Central Africa—and I climbed it! As one of the most physically and mentally challenging endeavors to date, the climb to and from the summit was absolutely exhilarating and worth every drop of sweat, tears, and blood (there really wasn’t very many tears or blood—honest!). There were times where the vista was absolutely stunning, and other times, like the climb through the savanna on the Guinness Trail, that were soul crushing.

While the slow ascent through thin air and howling winds to the mist shrouded peak was less than spectacular, the descent eventually led to one of the most awe inspiring sights on the mountain: a Serengeti-esque wind-swept savanna on a plateau 3000m high, surrounded on all sides by oceans of billowing white clouds.

The last day brought the toughest challenges: a march through highland forest, old lava flows, and rain forest at breakneck speeds for 8 hours with 3 breaks, and a 15 minute run over slick, wet rocks while the porter in front of me screamed “ants! ants!” and the guide behind me shouted “Run, Samwell! Run faster!” Army ants. Fun times.

Another notch under my belt: I finished the trek from Buea, to the summit, down to Bakingali, at sea level (normally a 4 day trek) in 3 days—the fastest time for a visitor. The visitor notation is important, because the porters, who carry huge rucksacks filled with supplies on their heads with nothing but plastic sandals, are in a different class of their own. In an altogether different league from sane people are the participants of the Race for Hope: a marathon up and down the Guinness race track, where runners have been known to climb the mountain in less than 4 hours! Still, I’ll take my meager feat with pride and distinction, thank you very much.

Day 62

Not thirty minutes away from Buea is Limbe, a lively getaway town in the shadow of Mt. Cameroon. Limbe is the destination of the hundreds of souls teaming through Douala’s congested throughways on Friday afternoons; it’s not hard to see why. Stretching lazily along the Atlantic shore, the spacious streets and easygoing atmosphere makes Limbe feel like a secret vacation getaway only known by a handful of friends and myself. The large number of easily visible westerners deflates this illusion, but despite that, most of the town feels far less of a tourist trap than it actually is.

Down Beach lies near the center of town along Ambas bay and is one of my favorite places. This is mostly because of the Down Beach fish market, where I like to practice my haggling as well as enjoy a delicious meal of grilled fish and plantains at plastic tables set on the black sand. While I can get a fairly good deal regularly, I’ve a long way to come to match Dr. Kamga, who once got the price of fish dropped from 2500 CFA to 900 CFA without as much as clearing his throat.
It was literally:
Me: “How much for this fish?”
Fish mama: “two five”
Dr. Kamga: “Give me for nine hundred”
Fish mama: “okay.”
Annoyingly, Dr. Kamga won’t give any of his secrets, leaving me to take notes furiously.

Another favorite destination, courtesy of PCVs Bill, Caitlin, and Brian, is Madison Park, which actually is very much hidden away and little known, but is a jewel as beaches go. The soft black sand, the warm rolling surf, and elegant palm trees are looked over by Mt. Etinde (or Small Mt. Cameroon) and gives the entire beach the appearance of a movie set. As guests at Madison Park, we were often the only ones enjoying the ocean. Once in a while, we would be joined by French expats from a nearby private beach or local boys who had the curious habit of singing to us as they boogie boarded on palm fronds. The ocean was wonderfully welcoming, and I learned to float in these waters. At night, we rented tents and fell asleep to the sound of the sea. We woke in the morning to the sound of John Coltrane and Mahalia Jackson, courtesy of Roland.

As a love struck victim of New Orleans’ brass and tom-tom siren song and marching band dirge, I couldn’t help but compare Roland, the blues aficionado caretaker of Madison Park, to the Big Easy. A city not only shaped by its circumstances, but also of them, New Orleans is the descendant of French Acadians, African slaves, European colonizers, and the native Choctaw that each contributed to its indissoluble spirit. It makes me reflect on the numerous influences on the cultures of Cameroon, and while Roland’s affinity to the blues may seem unlikely, it also seems to carries a weighty inevitability. We chatted into the night about the nature of blues: how it was the music of everyday life. We talked about the parallel rhythms of the pounding of the chain gang and the cassava pestle, the life and times of Fela Kuti, and the struggles that created and sustained the gospel spirituals in America.

Roland lives and breathes the blues; a fact that keeps me tethered in reality in such a beautiful land. I once offered empty banter, as an American is wont to do.
“Please, do not call this a paradise,” he replies, staring at offshore thunderclouds. “It is no such thing.”

Yes We Can

This night was nothing less than spiritual.
Equipped with two large bottles of caffeinated cola, I tuned into CNN and prepared for a long night. It began with the anticipation of the coming elections, but soon gave way to jittery excitement. By the time Kentucky was projected and results for Virginia and Indiana announced, I began to harbor a slow dread that ignored the low reporting rate. The ride was just beginning.

This was a night that I hope to remember for as long as I am. At 5AM, when Virginia was projected in favor of the blue, and Obama was soon declared the next president of the United States of America, I was in a daze. I whooped and hollered. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The Cameroonians who had risen to see the results faded away into the muffled periphery as I absorbed what I was seeing: the screaming crowds; Jesse Jackson’s tears; “hold on… help is on the way.” When John McCain delivered his concession speech, I was moved by his graciousness, and the sincerity that he revealed when speaking about his love for his country. I felt for him, but even more, I felt relief: it was over.

But as Barack Obama began to speak, every part of me listened and heard and shuttered with the wonder of it all. As the speech came to a close, it left me overwhelmed in its wake. My hands around my mouth, eyes fixed upon the screen, I wept uncontrollably. It hit me like a truck. Hot tears swelled in my eyes, then spilled down my face and past my fingers, unstoppable. I felt excited and freed and victorious and so goddamned hopeful it hurt. It felt like I had been exorcised, that great burdens had been pulled out by the salt of my tears.

From behind the guesthouse television, the sun rose over the Wouri river and daylight streamed in through the wrought-iron bars of the window. It’s a new day. Yes we can.

Day 54

Happy Election Day! The US elections have really caused a lot of excitement here in Cameroon. People everywhere are abuzz about the 4th, and I’ve gotten into conversations with all sorts of people here about it, from taxi drivers to merchants; pretty much anyone who suspects that I’m from the US, and even a few that don’t. Radio stations and newspapers everywhere are posting the latest news and rumors about the elections, and on at least two separate occasions, a small convoy of trucks has driven up and down the road, blaring news about Obama on megaphones.

I’ve been catching snippets of the elections here and there, and I’m confident of a Obama victory, despite the conspiracy theories raised by my Cameroonian colleagues and I am so damn excited for this to go down. I’ve invited some friends and acquaintances over to the guesthouse to watch the election coverage. I’m going to make pizza again, for a taste of home while I watch history unfold. Go Vote!