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.”