July 30:

July 29: Chadian igloos

July 29:

July 28:

July 27: Accidental tourist

We head out of Maroua. The expanse, dotted by trees. This Sahel desert region has much greenery. The road is supposed to be worse than last night’s.

Again, I see a truck crashed into a ditch by the side of the road. This scene is becoming such a common one.

I see domed houses. I tell my Cameroonian colleagues that some Americans think that all Canadians live in igloos. They remark that Europeans think they all live in mud huts. One more thing we have in common.

Each group of fenced off boukarous signify one family--the head of the household plus a boukarou for each of his wives. The minimum number of wives is 4--some richer men have 30 or so. The compounds vary from mud bricks to concrete. Even then, there is some expression of individuality--mud spikes, sculpted mud.

I rather like the dry heat here.

We reach Waza mid-morning and take a detour into the reserve. A lion was spotted this morning by some tourists. Given the short time I have, I am totally contented to see giraffe roaming. My first giraffe in the wild (and second and third and ...). Some lion’s footprints were spotted. Colourful birds. A pleasant diversion. I would have been ecstatic if I had spotted a lion but am quite content even without. After all this is not a vacation.

We arrive in Kousseri. I am bombarded with the dry desert heat exiting the car. We stay in a pretty fancy place--local and not full of foreigners. It turns out to be a great place to network. The region’s head of MOH is here. The cholera coordination head of region is here.

Even with a few hours, we are able to accomplish much.

July 26:

July 25: I need contingency plans

My planned trip is unravelling a bit. The aquatabs and ORS did not go up in the car. Nor did the T-shirts and polos that I had ordered as gifts for the chiefs and others we meet. M. Tsimi informs me that since he was not given the agenda, he had made other plans and is not able to meet with us today. Then we almost miss the flight because of a truck accident.

I don’ t know what traffic fatality rates are here in Cameroon but I suspect the number to be high. I see some awfully crushed truck cabs. Undented unscratched vehicles are such rarities here.

We do make the flight--sans snacks--as they were confiscated at security. My coconut and madeleines should make a great snack for the security personnel.

July 24: Semi public transport

I decide to do minimal work and just rest for the day.

I meet with Gonzalo, Is it Spanish time or Cameroonian time he keeps? In any case, we have a pleasant afternoon--part business, part social. He updates me a little bit about work in Garoua.

July 23: Cameroonian Thinker

I try to get lost in the car once again with a bit less success: I am beginning to master the city after all.

Last line dancing class today, at least for a while. Class feels so much like the childhood games we play. The farmer in the dell, musical chairs. Or reality TV. Each week, we have one less participant.

I return home and get all dolled up for an evening out with Vincent, Philippe, and Felicienne. We visit a local cabaret, Bois d’Ebene to hear some great local musicians. One guy seems to be very well known--he is asked to give an impromptu set and obliges. One woman with a huge deep jazzy voice sings Edith Piaf. One woman swings her hips African style. Men and women alike stare, mesmerized. How does she do that?

July 22: Modesty

I lift a chair. Quite deceiving. The wood here is lovely: dense and richly hued.

I thought that I could put the finishing touches on the proposal and hand it in by 10 a.m. That was not to be. To get all things done, it takes a long time. I get to the Canadian High Commission at 13h20, ten minutes before closing for the weekend. I am told that the ambassador already asked about it in the morning.

Next on the list: buying a couple tops with long sleeves for the predominantly Muslim northern Cameroon. Danielle obliges, taking me on a shopping expedition. I buy a long flowing traditional dress, This will be cool to wear, yet modest.

July 21:

1

July 20: Telecommuting

Emilien makes Fian N’dole, a local dish with ground peanuts and mushrooms. This is the first real Cameroonian dish I am trying. The flavours are interesting, and certainly more palatable than the rest of the local foodstuff I’ve tried so far.

I stay at home to work this morning. Better WIFI, no interruptions, access to my own clean toilet--really all positive and no negatives. Well... one negative...access to my fridge is a bit too easy.

July 19: Fun errands

I drop by the Canadian High Commission to discuss the project. The woman in charge of the fund surprises me--she is in charge of funding projects of NGOs and such but does not seem to know even the basics of the Red Cross. Where is her head buried? How can someone who is involved with donating funds to various NGOs be not aware of the existence of the Red Cross? We are, after all, the granddaddy of all humanitarian agencies, now 153 years old. The federation itself is now about 92 years old.

I go grocery shopping--not because I need to replenish my food stock, but because it gives me a chance to mingle with people. I do not meet anyone I know but the constant buzz is a nice change from echoes in the house. This house is humongous-- about 10,000 square feet. I am its only inhabitant at the moment. My boss is away in Central African Republic.

July 18: Paper work

I try to mobilize all parties needed to get a project proposal done in 7 days. Except that at the end of the day, I find out that I need to complete it in 4 days. I gear up a notch.

Emilienne shops for food at the market but at the end of the day, I am still served leftovers. I think we have a communication gap. At least she doesn’t cook with cups of oil nor does she cook vast amounts at a time. She is also much cleaner in her prep. However, she doesn’t have the flair of taste that comes with natural cooking abilities. I am grateful for May’s homemade hot sauce, which gives my meals a bit more flavour.

July 17:

Lan and Vinh is my connection to the outside world. They invite me for a walk towards Mount Febe. This is my first opportunity to walk through the centre of Bastos. The slower pace allows me to check out my surroundings a bit more carefully.

We are joined by Greg and Carolyn, two Canadians working with VSO.

July 16: Get lost

My day’s agenda: to get totally lost and find my way back home. I drive the car up and down hills just trying to familiarize myself with the city. Roads that twist and turn do not have signage. Most do not even have names. I do come across a church and attend a service. I find the Italian bakery and its gelato selection. I take a wrong turn and end up in the marketing throngs. I ensure that doors are locked and windows closed. A policeman directs me to pull ahead. I inch forward timidly. A taxi sitting just right of me slides backwards while I am moving. Scrape. I dare not get out, fearing my safety. People outside take a glance at the damage and do not seem fazed. I reach home and check passenger side of the car--big scratch, no dent. This car just joined the 99% of Cameroonian vehicles with visible damage.

Lovely afternoon with Vinh, Lan, and Kordula. May, our instructor, is in Vancouver. Eliane is on her way to Shanghai for her next placement. Vinh does a great job teaching. My feet are finally going where they need to go...sometimes. The coordination may come yet. I grudgingly end the pleasant visit to head for my next outing.

The husband of an outgoing ICRC delegate is playing a gig at Awale. My first foray into the Yaoundé restaurant scene. We, all the expats at IFRC, meet up with those in the ICRC. A nice break--no shop talk tonight. I eat couscous--not the heavy Cameroonian version but rather the fluffy Morrocan style.

July 15: The morning after

I am dopey. A good reason not to party on a Thursday night. And I had nary a sip of that free flowing French champagne. I have to put to paper all my observations from the recent trip. Otherwise, much would be lost. I write. But my brain is on zombie mode. Neither right nor left are working that well.

July 14: Red and white and blue all over

Bastille Day. Denis invites me to join him in the celebration at the French ambassador’s home, a beautiful 1960-ish style building nestled on a beautiful estate overlooking the city. This property likely dates back to colonial days.

This Jekyll and Hyde life of mine. I am in the rural areas, meeting people living in squalid conditions, eating poorly, wading through garbage, and assessing latrines. Then I return to Yaoundé to fete with ambassadors and the power figures of Cameroon society. Soirees are considered part of my work. I network with the Egyptian ambassador, the Korean ambassador, the Canadian high commissioner, the Dutch international development agency rep, the Spanish consul, the British High Commissioner.

July 13: Cultural exchanges

You know the story about the man at the fork who always lies? We need to look at it from a different light. He means no harm. He is just trying to be polite.

I keep telling myself that I need to live within the culture. Untruths told may not really be lying but a form of politeness. A Cameroonian clock ticks by much more slowly. I spend 2 hours chasing down the latest national data on cholera for a very important meeting. Old data may have drastic consequences on our credibility. I speak with the keeper of the data, telling him that I am in a hurry. I need numbers before a 12:30 meeting. He would not provide the numbers over the phone, so I rush into his office at 12:15. He is not there. He saunters in 5 minutes later and says he cannot find the key to access the data. At 12:45, he finally turns on his computer. That was when I find out what he was trying to do. He checks his email inbox. He did not get an email from one zone to complete his latest data collection. He shows me that the data has not even been collected--at 12:50! And the data is far from processed. If he had only told me over the phone that the data had not been collected...

I move to my boss’ home. It certainly is big enough for the two of us. Yet sharing a home with the boss have its drawbacks. It means functioning in French for a few more hours every day. Yannick moves my things--but not all. None of the food was transferred in the move. After a long work day, I return home to no food. I eat peanuts. So much for looking forward to that big meal after a week of French fries.

July 12: Cameroonian pyramids

We finish our work one day ahead of schedule. I hope this will not cause problems for Mme Lobe. A bit of added value: I stop off at the chefferie of Bafout on the way out. Pricey tourism-- I am doing my part funding this chefferie. Cameroon is certainly off the beaten track as far as mass tourism goes, and this tourist site gets few visitors. Besides, I think one of my roles as a Red Cross delegate is to sink some money into the economy by spending.

They eat small wild felines, snakes, rats, porcupines. I get adventurous vegetarian style and pick up some red aubergine. I manage one taste of the raw bitter vegetable.

July 11: Odd drinking vessels

After all the garbage I had been wading through, nothing is as bad as the rotten fish odours permeating through our car for the past 2 days. Marcel did not get around to eating his fish before it spoiled.

We finish up early in Foumbot and head to Foumban. We meet with Dr. X, who, along with being the president of the local Red Cross chapter, happens to be the brother of the sultan. As a prince, the locals know well that he cannot be seated next to him. I, on the other hand, have been given the honour. However, h opts not to let me know that he is prince.

The sultan is away on business in Yaoundé. Pity...it would have been a nice part of our work.

We visit the local artisans. The prince barters away. The artisans cannot argue. I will return home with a stool and headrest, purchased with an un-princely sum. I continue on my personal tour at the World Heritage designated sultan’s palace of the Bafoum kingdom. This is the prince’s childhood home. The prince requests the guardian of the museum to show us around after hours. Fascinating! Mbue Mbue, one of the sultans, was a giant of a man. He was over 2.6 metres tall, with corresponding proportions. I can probably wear his bangles as a belt, and I am not a thin woman.

I see an enemy’s skull fashioned into a drinking vessel. I see all the various headdresses. I see the thrones fashioned for the last 3 sultans. I see all the various objects that are still being used in the biannual Boum processions (the next procession is scheduled for December 2012). I see a headdress made of the mandibles of enemies. I need to keep on the good side of the prince.

July 10: Bamiléké architects

We travel into the West region. The square sliced white bread in the anglophone Southwest region is displaced by French style baguettes. The rolling hills, the pyramidal rooftops peak out of dense tree groves--a hallmark of Bamileke architecture.

A recently upturned oil tanker sits in the ditch. Another truck’s cab is crushed. The survival of the two drivers is unlikely. I am astonished by the number of accidents we see--4 in one day. But then I should not be surprised--anarchy rules on the roads.

I overhear M. Lobe’s conversation with his wife, “I will return no later than Tuesday.”

I do not understand. The earliest would be Wednesday. He explains, the other 2 Camerounais nodding in agreement. They tell their wives they are coming home before they really return.

“Won’t they worry?”

“No, this way the place will be ready for the return and the wife will not be running around trying to get things done before the return.” One does not enter quietly. A lot of noise is made at the gate. This is to avoid confronting anything (or anyone) that might cause problems...

July 9

July 8: Experiencing the rainiest place on Earth

I awaken just before our 6:45 a.m. meeting time. I am at the foothill of Mt Cameroon next to the Gulf of Guinea. Here I am in the rainy season only a few kilometres from the rainiest spot on Earth. I can imagine the beauty of this spot on a clear day. Instead, the low clouds and rain envelop me.

I get a glimpse of Mount Cameroon peaking through the clouds. This active volcano is the tallest peak in West Africa.

I think I’ve created a monster! M. Lobe insists that we head to Wovia to observe the villagers toileting into the sea!

I pick my way carefully through the ‘wasteland’. The path is a multifunctioning toilet, garbage dump, and pathway.

Umbrellas saves lives in thunderstorms, I am told. This way the current passes through the body instead of taking a direct hit. Pretty twisted logic. The aim is not to get hit at all.

July 7: Mission within a mission

We head out of Yaoundé.

Yesterday’s derailed schedule continues to affect today’s. Things that need to be done before departure could not be completed by the time the office closed. Marcel returned to the office at 7 p.m. and was unable to complete his part. I was not aware of all that needs to be done, so end up waiting this morning. We pick up Annie. I discover that she is no longer coming. She bails out saying that she has a headache and then tells Marcel and M. Lobe that her boss assigned other work for her. I suspect it is because she is scared of all that I demand of her. I saw the seething anger in her yesterday evening when I kept her at work until 6:15 p.m. A pity for her, but really of little consequence on our mission. M. Lobe, on the other hand, seems to revel in the knowledge he has garnered over the last few days and seems ready to put in some good work.

July 6: Test drive

I head out on my first foray into the field. to Obala, with my Cameroonian counterparts in tow. This is a test drive of what to expect on my upcoming field missions. I learn to slow down even further. The visit is enlightening--more than with cholera. I am introduced to bitakola, medicinal nuts that soothes the tummy. Then I pick up one of the elongated leaf wrapped ‘bobolo’.

My imagination is stretched far to see if there is anything pleasant with its taste and falls short. This delicacy is prepared by soaking casava over 3 days, then pounding it into a mash, then assembling into long shapes, wrapped with a special type of leaves. I bite into the lightly fermented gummy starch--I guess it must be an acquired taste.