Walking The Gauntlet

Every morning as the traffic increases with the light I wake up and begin my day writing something. We eat a light breakfast and descend the 4 flights to the lane and then out to the street.
The walk to the camp house takes us past a number of businesses; motorcycle repairs and parts dealers, building supplies, bars and the vendors spilling out of the market.  Mostly we need to walk in the street as the sidewalk, when there is one, is often blocked by parked cars, motorcycles being repaired and bags of cement along with vendors selling everything from doughnuts to avocados, cell time, boiled eggs and peanuts. Along with children and a few adults walking by, their wares displayed on trays and boxes carried hands free on their heads.
At the market there seems to be some kind of territorial agreement with the motorcyle taxis who wait parked on the sidewalk at one end, lined up , pushing off into the honking traffic when they have passengers.
We dodge around  a constant stream of staring people and when I'm not too intent on avoiding being hit by the traffic I'll say hello. Immediately the response is a smile and hello back. There are children everywhere, hanging about the skirts of the vendors shyly regarding us and thrilled or occasionally frightened when I say hello.
At the far end of the market where we turn to head down to the camp house are the taxis. The drivers accost us when we return for the trip out to Bafut and the Ndanifor Eco-Village site. Elke and I stand aside until a fare is determined and  then off we go.
As we leave Bamenda and the press of people and urbanity the road  slowly climbs past great gardens and plantations of banana and cassava. An occasional  church, bilingual school, building supplier and a hotel or two  We dip and then ascend through a cut into the hillside. Beside the road are piles of uniformly broken rock opposite excavations, collapsed  and newly started, piles of dirt and debris surrounding men sitting under shade cracking rock with hammers.
The temperature is pleasantly warm, cloudy with a threat of thunderstorm on the horizon when we arrive in Bafut. After driving the extremely bumpy, eroded and slippery red clay road it is welcome to walk along to the beginning of the gardens.

Summer Camp Begins

Elke and I are here in Cameroon to assist in running the BetterWorld Summer Camp.

 Day one and we revisit the schedule, posting on stickie notes each activity, re-arranging them to maximize our time on the land. Nothing like a visual aid to organize one's thoughts. The camp attendees drift in slowly over the next week, a few are in and out with other more compelling responsibilities that have them missing chunks of the program.
The camp's presentations and information sessions are being held in a ground floor apartment, in a higher end part of town, although it's hard to tell from the roads.
 The "campers" sleep there and we have our meals together. No furniture so Sonita brings some chairs from the office in a couple of taxis...

We introduce ourselves and spend some time determining what everyone has to offer, what they are expecting.
 An introduction to Council Circle, The Four Agreements and basic communication understandings get us going.


Our first work day at the farm, we all pile into  a taxi. Obviously the rates aren't enough because each time we are jammed in tight with more people than I deem safe. I finally say no when the driver has someone sharing his seat as well as the 5 people in the back and 3 on the front passenger seat of a Toyota Tercel, the standard taxi here.

On arrival our first exercise is observation.
Everyone finds a spot to draw their map from. I try to inventory all the trees I see from the edge of the cleared area. It really is too much. I'm unable to differentiate the different palms yet, along with a number of other unfamiliar trees  interspersed among the rows of corn and cassava all interplanted with beans, sweet potato...It is a big list. I try a different tack from another angle.
 Elke calls us all back and we discuss the exercise, I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, but we all have better sense of being there.


Next we descend the slope into an even denser, lusher area where there are some seedlings that we'll be planting out.

 Up the hill and measuring the approximate mature span of the eventual crown size these trees will produce determines how far apart to plant along one edge of the cleared area and into the swales below.






As we head over to the next planting spot it begins to rain. Someone pulls some ripe ears of corn and we decamp to the shed where a fire is quickly built and the ears roasted. The rain comes down, Hard.

 Big drops and intense, one can barely see the women who continue to work, making beds to be planted later, each covered with a large white bag one side slit to make a raincape.
They do eventually join us, soaked to the skin to dry out and have a roasted corn snack just before we head back to town.

First Visit to Bafut

Nothing happens quickly here, except the taxi rides: one minute we're standing at the side of the road and the next hurtling through oncoming traffic dodging potholes, pedestrians and other taxis going in both directions either side of the road.
This after visiting the office of  Better World Cameroon where the "bamboo" man Pius, was waiting for us.  While Joshua fielded phone calls and email, Elke conferred with Sonita about the program. After an introduction, Pius waited patiently beside them listening carefully to everything they said.
Then we took that aforementioned cab ride to the "bamboo" man's house along roads that reminded me of washouts I'd hesitate to bicycle into.
 Welcomed into his home he showed us examples of his work; panels for walls and ceiling, a chair and a small briefcase his son had produced: no metal, even the locking mechanism made from this "bamboo"
With a word to his daughter lunch appeared in front of us. The hospitality here has been impressive, local food and lots if it. Plantain, boiled this meal, with chicken in a delicious tomato hotsauce. So much for losing weight here...
Another cab ride, this time with extra passengers. We were wedged in tightly 4 in the back and ! 4 in the front! 2 small children but still...The police were obvious standing at the side of the road. Apparently this is a "toll" road. Our driver must have paid earlier, we weren't stopped.
From one cab into another and down a red, red eroded slippery road to Bafut. We stop at a booth and pick up a bottle of Palm Wine. Fizzy and sweet like Ginger Beer only mildly alcoholic. We trek in to the Ndanifor Permaculture Eco-Village  site and are blown away by how much has been accomplished. Terraced, swaled hillsides, a cleared area for the buildings,  bananas,  numerous trees and cassava, ginger, corn, Taro, palm oil trees, pumpkins, sweet potato and more, both ready to harvest and just emerging. The soil enriched by a constant source of mulch/compost from the prolific growth of... everything! Little tree nurseries here and there, a riot of green, ferns, palms....it's the jungle......
The "bamboo" turned out to be Raffia-Palm wands/stems (for lack of a better term) the business end of the palm frond. A solid chunk of fibre about  as big around as my arm and 3-6 metres in length. Beside the building site large bundles stacked and waiting for the plan, some leaning up against a tree like tipi poles.
I was reminded of Eden, a veritable paradise of food plants with a climate to match. Walking out I thought about my permaculture lessons- that's how it's done. Interplanting, succession and stacking, nothing wasted, moisture stored in the rich soil...
We picked up a jug of Palm wine, walked out to pavement and another high speed taxi ride took us back to the apartment.

Descending into Bemanda the bus pulls around and to the left a waterfall dropping unimpeded for about 60 metres, a slow white arc against the green of the mountainside. On the right the city spreads out up to the hills ringing it.
Like many bus stations we've been to recently the "driveway' is dirt and mud. After exiting the bus we  carefully retrieve our belongings. I take on my backpack and Joshua's in front (actually nicely balanced) while he finds us a cab. I'm lost immediately as the driver takes left turns, right turns and proceeds along streets towards our destination.
 From the balcony later I spot the waterfall and determine it is to the south and east of our present location. A thunderstorm erupts off in the distance, immense black clouds crossed with a rainbow.
That evening we are led down a narrow alley in the dark to be welcomed officially by the Board of Better World Cameroon. They called us brother and sister, many hugs and handshakes, new names and introductions.
  Prayers had been said to assure our safe arrival as we came through the air and overland by bus. A short speech of welcome, and then the meal. Being the guests of honour we're served first. Rice with vegetables, fried plantain in strips, greens with little white flecks (ground melon seed)and chicken.
The host and Board chair brings out a bottle of ...  German style beer brewed here in Cameroon (since 1759 it says on the bottle) and then everyone else fills their plates. A major grace spoken with much reference to Jesus and then the toasts. We are told the tradition of serving the patriarch the chicken's gizzard and yes I ate every morsel. 
Energized by a delicious meal  Elke speaks, introducing herself and her work. My turn and I speak about education, men's work and my role working with Elke. How our intention is to support the creation of a Better World.
Aware that we have been traveling for the last three days our hosts encourage a short evening and we head back to the apartment proceeding flashlight in hand to fall asleep to the sounds of the nightclub below, the honking of taxis and motorcycles from the street out front.

Travelers

I'm sitting in the Istanbul airport, drinking a Turkish beer, when a fellow takes the seat beside us. A burly hunk of a guy, he wants to know where we are from. When we ask, he's Turkish and on his way to  a kickboxing competition in Thailand.
Across from me at another table  I watch an older Oriental lady sipping beer and fanning herself. There is something quite elegant or regal about who she might be. The airport is full of milling,  shopping people of all descriptions. We blend in easily, two more travelers bound for somewhere else with no desire to visit or actually purchase anything in the "Duty Free"
No, we have enough stuff already.
In the lounge for our flight a young couple, white, among all the black faces, each speak to us. They are Cameroonian residents, working in a school in Yaounde, both born in Africa, she speaks with an Illinois accent. Super friendly and offering much info about Cameroon I'm struck again by the reality of actually being somewhere as opposed to  reading the warnings from the state department on the net.
My experience of people everywhere is that they are friendly.  A stern or seemingly unfriendly stare or gaze is often disarmed with a simple hello. And, placing oneself in challenging or compromising situations puts you at risk . Obviously.
On the bus to Bamenda I take a seat at the back so I can sit more comfortably. The guy beside me is huge and intimidating looking. I offer my hand to shake and he shares his trouble sitting in the cramped seats. His two boys perched beside him stare unashamedly at me for most of the trip.

The terrain is a visual feast; dense jungle looks like a lot of trees and undergrowth, the occasional plantation of banana, oil palm or coconut completely engulfed by the vines and miscellaneous greenery that seems to take about a week to reassert itself. Along the road to Yaounde there were smashed (usually front end) abandoned cars about every 5 km interspersed occasionally with trucks like dead animals, their wheels in the air, in the ditches and rolled down the banks. No buses thankfully.
Many of the towns along the way have speed bumps along with disrepair and considerable gaps in the road (pot hole does not begin to describe them) which, depending on how adroitly our driver swerves, has me airborn or looking down at the ground. That and the near misses of passing vehicles drives me to reading my e reader. That is when I'm able to focus on the jerking screen.
When we stop halfway (maybe!)  the food vendors are all over us  Most can speak some English, pidgin and French so we are able to understand... mostly.  Cassava in a long sausage shape, roasted plantain,
a peanut or pistachio paste wrapped in a banana leaf with hot spices and a  small purple eggplant looking fruit I saw in the trees that's roasted then eaten cold. Try and find that at home!