Christmas in Kenya

 Dec 24
At the moment I’m staying in an A-frame surrounded by second growth trees in some of the last remaining indigenous forest in Nairobi Kenyas’ environs. A few moments ago there was a large Sykes monkey sitting on the balcony peering at us from the railing. Long tails and a huge hairy brow. They are quite entertaining jumping through the tree tops, chasing each other. The dogs barking their heads off while the monkeys run up and down the vines and trees beside the house teasing them. If we leave a window open for the cats, and bananas on the counter? Bananas gone. Yesterday I was sitting doing my writing and I hear the window moving open, then a face peers under the blind. Cheeky!
It’s a tremendous relief to be away from the instability and potential violence we experienced last month in Bamenda. It was challenging to  focus on anything with random gunshots , tear gas and protests happening. We were already intending to leave, so it seemed appropriate to accelerate our departure since we had a destination and accommodation waiting. Putting out the word to friends and associates we were able to give away and sell  all our furniture and household goods, recovering some of our investment. A bonus really. And all done long before the arranged ride arrived. Floors mopped, bags packed and waiting at the entrance.
It was a bitter sweet departure. We made some good friends in Bafut, some friends were out of the country and others we hadn’t contacted before leaving. The threat of more troops arriving, unknown outcomes and more protests anticipated,  encouraged us to cut short our stay, and move on to our next adventure. One of the German volunteers accompanied us to Dschang where there is a famous museum. The other volunteer was there already staying with a friend and raving about how friendly everyone was. A college town with a lakeside promenade beside the museum, it was quite a contrast.
Then onto Douala by bus. The proprietor of the hotel drove us in the morning to the depot where numerous touts attempted to “assist” us into their company’s bus. I watched them accost a number of arriving women on motorcycles, quite aggressively. The women were not impressed. Eventually we left after a few false starts, entertained by a salesman flogging herbal remedies, standing in the aisle at the front of the bus exhorting everyone to try his samples. After some time he got off and not long later another fellow stepped on and did a repeat performance.
Douala’s a busy place, international seaport and airport, a real cross-roads of cultures. We spent time walking near the hotel, breakfast at a roadside stall every morning, a pizza in the Greek/Lebanese restaurant on our last night. We had a driver from a previous visit and he gave us a tour of the town. Through the port authority; massive warehouses,  lines of waiting workers, stacked containers and seafood restaurants, then the old part of town past impressive architecture, hotels and residences. Lots of very old street trees, mostly mangoes.
 Then into the main market, a more chaotic and crowded place, I’ve never been. Negotiating through intersections spilling over with produce, people and intense smells we inched through, the market itself stretching in all directions beyond sight. Trucks disgorging endless boxes of goods manhandled and hand-trucked back into the market from blocks away where there was somewhere to park. Intense.
In the morning a Christmas parade had us leaving early to avoid the blocked streets, through the airport and onto our plane… practically empty. We managed to score the exit seats, lots of leg room and they cancelled the scheduled stop in Yaounde so we arrived an hour early. The view was clouds the whole way until I saw Lake Victoria!   Our ride arrived after Elke had arranged sim cards so our internet connection is set.

A Day of Sunshine

Nov 30
I get up after the first call to prayer, The Muezzin sings out for 2 minutes or so, mostly melodic, in Arabic of course. It's dark still but soon the eastern sky lightens and the mountains are backlit as the sun rises towards the edge of the hills. Down below in the city there are occasional taxis and motorbikes, a few people are walking down the hill to the market where trucks have arrived, unloading sacks of oranges from Nigeria, baskets of tomatoes and hundreds of melons passed  and thrown to waiting vendors who stack them in the open area in short wide pyramids. Sometimes the whole area is a peculiar green from the piles of them, like thousands of grapes covering the place. Running up the hill are the morning exercisers, who congregate in front of the building doing stretches and counting in husky, breathy voices together.
 The Sun makes it to the edge of the horizon just after 7am and below, the city is bathed in dust or haze, everything is indistinct except the noise. More people walking down the hill as the traffic increases. The sun is now brilliant, strong and hot as the light fills our apartment. I have to drop the curtain since I’m facing east and it shines into my eyes. The cool air of the night dissipates quickly. We have put our “perishables” on the balcony overnight and I pull them in before the sun has risen past  the mountain. Some vegetables and occasionally cheese. This is my time every morning. I sit and write and look at email.
Elke sits with her coffee and does exercise in the other room, then we make breakfast. After, I do the dishes standing at the window with the curtain part way down. The dishes dry quickly with the sun shining directly on them. By 11am the sun has gone past the edge of the building and we are in the shade.  A bit of wind might come up the dust/haze diminishes some.  By 1pm it is very warm.
Yesterday after writing /editing a piece for BWC I walked down to the market. There I bought some pears (avocado)  1 ripe, 1 almost ripe and 2 not so ripe- 900 francs- a bit expensive, the season is about to start so there are not a lot of them available. When they are, we buy 10 or 11 for 100 francs. about 20 cents. Tomatoes 10 or 12 for 500 francs-$1.00  Fresh (still covered in dirt) carrots, potatoes, and beans(no dirt), papaya’s in season and my daily lemon. Occasionally a treat; an eggplant, mushrooms in season, Chinese cabbage, broccoli or cauliflower. We rarely if ever buy melons, too big, no fridge, they go bad fast.
 After shopping I walked back up the hill, slowly with my walking stick. Arriving at the top I was sweating pretty heavily, heart rate up, shirt soaked. Inside the apartment a cool wind blows up or down the stairs. I have to watch myself on them  as they are inconsistant in depth and height. I’ve tripped a few times.
 Elke will have done laundry in a bucket in the bathroom and hung it out on the balcony. We have no large sink, this apartment is actually office space. We had a tap installed on the toilet  line to fill buckets. Dish water gets dumped down the toilet. The laundry is usually dry by the time we eat lunch.
By 5pm the wall in the bathroom has heated the pipes in it enough to have an almost hot shower. It  will radiate heat all night long so sometimes we leave the balcony door open during the night.
I miss the sunsets, they are on the other side of the building. By sticking my head out of the bathroom window I can sometimes catch it but it’s awkward. The window is just big enough for my head to poke through.And I have to remember to look. Around 6 the bats begin to fly from the cliff to the east, the flow of pedestrians up the hill increases and the setting sun lights up any clouds building in the north east,  bright red and pink. We often sit out on the balcony to cool down and talk  until the smell of some noxious burning substance drives us inside.

Instability

Nov 25
It’s back to normal here, honking taxis, the flash of reflected light down in the market, crowds of shoppers, children playing nearby and a couple of falcons wheeling and soaring above.
I spent part of the morning walking through town past the piles of charcoaled coils of wire pushed off the road, blackened pavement where the fires had been. Most of the evidence cast aside and contributing to the general debris at the side of the roads. In a few places piles of garbage mounting, smelling of course.
At the main intersections, police pick-ups, some with bored soldiers sitting in the shade under the vinyl covers, cradling their rifles. I had occasional glimpses of camouflage dressed militia here and there, walking the streets in pairs. In front of every cash machine a long line-up of people.
The vendors are busy, stores open for business, crowds around the women hawking fruit and vegetables beside the market. Young boys and older men trundling loads of firewood in their two wheeled carts.
We hear from locals that there will be a protest march on Monday. The last one here in Bamenda was “moved” to Buea so not much happened while we were gone to the farm. Some cleanup I imagine. Removing the piles of burnt tires, broken up phone kiosks and the hulk of a car off the road.
The protesters needing an outlet for their frustrations, piled tires and whatever else they could find, onto the roads across the city, setting them on fire to limit the mobility of the military.

 The response was, in my mind both pathetic and provocative. Various extensions of the military (so many  to account for and all their signs in French) racing up and down the roads randomly firing either tear gas or smoke bombs (I didn’t see anyone in tears or suffering) into the neighbourhoods, whether there were people assembled or not…! Like boys with big toys, showing off their firepower.
The helicopter surveillance (they seem to have only one) filled the air the day before we escaped with it’s noxious noise, circling the town wending it’s way across the landscape monitoring whatever.
After 50+ years of inaction and stonewalling the Anglophones are fed up. The president in power for more than 30 years appears to spend more time in luxury hotels outside the country than in. Sounds like the definition of absentee landlord living off the avails. He’s worth a fair chunk of change from funnelling monies received for the country into various offshore accounts. It helps support his playboy son heir-apparent in this fiasco. At least according to what I’ve heard.
There is talk of secession. When the British gave up their rule here, there were two Cameroons and most of the country determined that unity was the best option. That sentiment remains only on the French side now. There has been a constant erosion of rights and privileges, installations of government officials who don’t speak English and general ignoring of the desire for dialogue.
For us temporary residents, it was disturbing, anxiety raising and unpleasant; breathing in the smoke from burning tires (our  floors were covered in the dust, and this is with all windows and doors closed) random gunshots and people scattering whenever a military vehicle approached. Their laughter,  seen from my perspective, either nervous or disdainful.

 I had no desire to be stuck in civil war or any kind of violent  confrontation. That night the streets were uncharacteristically silent.
 Our driver had been unable to get past a barrier the day before so when we heard that something might happen we arranged for a quick getaway early in the morning.
Out at the farm it was quite peaceful, only a few passes overhead from the helicopter, birds singing and a beautiful star filled sky. We spent a couple of nights there, did some work on the stoves, some cultivation, chopped firewood and talked with the neighbours. Their perspective was we should not worry, nothing would come from it and everything soon back to normal, so we returned. It was ironic to be happy to hear the sounds of a busy city as we drifted off to sleep.
Monday? maybe back to the farm. And if things really get nasty? Already making plans to leave the country. But only if necessay.

Still walking

Walking is our default option for mobility. This weekend we watched Artur Mikes, a 15 month old inquisitive, smiling little bundle of energy make his way around the circling porch of his home. Trucking along with and without my finger grasped firmly in his hand. He would falter, trip and pick himself up consitently without complaint.

 Into the garden, down pathways, back and forth, in and out of the kitchen. Occasionally he reverted to a crawl working his way to his dad or mom then standing, motioning with his hands and spouting incomprehensible syllables.

I felt like I was at the other end of that cycle.
After walking in to their home, a farm tucked in between forest and pasture in the mountains of  North West Cameroon I was beat and almost mute.


Halfway there, Louis, our friend from Bafut offered to take my backpack. No hesitation, I handed it over.
 We’d been climbing up a rutted slope after picking our way across two log bridges traversing the stream at the bottom of a ravine.
The cattle and the rain had made the ground like inconstant corduroy, deeply eroded channels all aimed downhill. Or uphill which is where we were going. These “trails” are erratic, narrow and occasionally slippery. I was using my cane and it often slipped, throwing my already compromised balance off. The grassy pasture, a bright green from recent rains was tufted and steep making for tough going even without the pack. However, the view was spectacular. These are the mountains in the North East we can see from our apartment in Bamenda and it was clear enough to see all the way back there.
 All around was lush growth, blooming trees, shrubs and bulbs.With hardly a cloud, the sun beat down. The shade was  welcome as we circled the mountain, following the cow paths and “road” where we met a herd of cows accompanied by both younger and elder herders.

That part of the trail is completely pedestrian, the steep slopes and erosion make it impassable even for motorbikes. Crossing another watercourse stepping from rock to rock we climbed again. through deeply eroded banks up onto a grass verge. It was startlingly green, bright and fresh like some vast pasture anywhere in the world. Off to the right were small earth brick houses, laundry hung brightly on the fence.

Here we were joined by 3 young boys who accompanied us and themselves by singing loudly as we walked into the forest along a better maintained road.The large trees and thick bush provided  cooling shade and we soon arrived at Martin and Jella Mikes’ homestead.

After a short rest and refreshment we toured the property. Martin is passionate about protecting the forest and has planted over 15,000 trees up the mountain on the property he stewards. His tree nursery has thousands more germinating and filling poly pots.

 He’s also passionate about permaculture  and organic gardening, growing wheat, irish (potatoes), cabbage, onions and carrots. What they can’t grow they trade with neighbours making them almost community sufficient.
Nearby there is a group of chimpanzees living in what remains of the primal forest. Part of why Martin and Jella are here is to advocate and protect the habitat for these remaining animals. The local herders are more interested in burning the vegetation away to make more pasture… Cattle are their life blood. Their economies are based on having large herds and somewhere to graze them.
The local forestry officials seem less than committed to protection and there have been constant struggles with officialdom navigating the bureaucracies. But after 8 years the Mikes’ interest seems hardly diminished and much has been accomplished. Chickens, goats and 3 types of fish in their pond, compost piles producing mulch and dark soil growing healthy vegetables. A well established herb garden and a number of round earth block buildings , water systems and a school for the local children. Unfortunately at this time the school has been closed.
Oh to be young again, with this knowledge and experience….
We had brought some bratwurst from the Helping Hands Butcher shop and with a substantial salad of homegrown veggies had a satisfying supper.

The light faded, the clouds rolled in (literally!) and were in the fog and deep damp.







In the morning after breakfast and some conversation, Elke and Louis built a rocket stove cooker in the  kitchen. Martin had blocks already made and it was together in very little time. I did my best to record the process, It is entertaining how everyone gets in the way of the camera, especially those actually building!

Their previous cooking arrangement involved 3 stones and very large pieces of constantly smouldering wood, so this was a revelation. But also a major adjustment from big stuff to small, twigs and branches. I sensed some resistance from the cook, it will take some time and experience to win her over. The design needed adjustments as well, we are all still learning but it is an improvement in air quality and safety.






Our stay was short, we’d arranged for our taxi to pick us up at 3 so after lunch cooked on both 3 stones and the new cooker, we walked out, accompanied by Jella with Artur on her back. At the rutted field we said goodbye and made our descent into the narrow valley recrossing the stream, clambering up the other side, then back along the road, past horses in the fields and walkers hauling sacks of groceries to their homes. Onto a better road where fellows were falling great eucalyptus trees, slicing them up into timber and boards. Up the steep hillside some women called out us as they stopped their harvesting and hoeing in the terraced farm. Motorcycles passed us carrying massive sacks of NjamaNjama; what they call Huckleberry-  Black Nightshade leaves-Solanum nigra- for sale in town.
Eventually we arrived at the paved road leading  east to Ndop or  back to Bamenda. I had managed the backpack every step of the way. Tired but satisfied. I’m not over the hill yet.
  After purchasing a few items from the vendors congregating along the road we found ourselves a seat in a Mimbo bar and grill and sheltered from the rain. Good timing! Eric our driver came along and we were on our way home. (More pictures on my Facebook page!)

Bamenda journal

After some soul searching and reality checks we’ve decided to continue living in town. The apartment building is familiar (our third time living here) and central. Step out the front entrance (there is no rear entrance unless I get us a rope ladder)
and it’s easy to catch a taxi going by in either direction. We usually walk though, right, to the Better World office towards Bafut or down Fish Pond Hill to the food market below. To the left goes down past the hospital to get to Commercial avenue or  to French lessons at Veterinary junction.

 This Saturday morning we made our way down the hill for weekend shopping and entertainment. It’s  an engaging descent as taxis and motorcycles laden with all manner of goods hurtle uphill and down often spewing noxious fumes. Both sides of the road there are tradesmen and  small industry making aluminum cooking pots, cement bricks and furniture . At the bottom the road crosses a stream choked with detritus and garbage, plastic, tires and discarded baskets from the market. Upstream, I saw a fellow washing himself.
 It's a busy time, the food market  packed with vendors and buyers, the motorcycle drivers congregating at the corner like vultures, waiting for fares. Crossing the road can be challenging although there is so much traffic and the road is so narrow it is often at a standstill.  The roadsides lined with vendors hawking wheelbarrows full of peppers, groundnuts, onions and oranges, the stalls behind with almost everything else.

We continued on past trays and carts of kola nut, potatoes and stacks of eggs to the fish market (all frozen). Then parallel to the main road up an alley past piles of new flip flops and many little kiosks  with used shoes hanging from strings.
Beyond this is the “clothing district” small booths and stalls shoulder to shoulder along a narrow winding track, densely packed with people, motorcycles honking as they make their way ferrying folks and goods up and down. The whole while in an endless cacophony all these vendors are yelling, calling out, some with repeating recorded messages,”one thousand for pants, one thousand for shirts”.  Piles of used jeans, towels and sheets, hats, new and used underwear. We round a corner past stacks of aluminum pots from big to much bigger, stone grinders, plastic utensils, curtains and used purses. The road was almost impassable, trucks offloading and motorcycles squeezing past the pedestrians and cart boys flogging drinks and snacks.
One had a sign: Special Sale, his cart filled with wines and hard stuff. Apparently no liquor licence required.
 Inside the main market it is laid out in a grid,  a mini medina with darkened passageways running East West and open alleys North South.  From cutlery to contraband I imagine it’s all available. We entered the main entrance off Commercial avenue specifically to see the fabric. Immediately to the right a wide passage of hole in the wall rooms, both sides, with layers of brightly coloured printed fabrics hung out in front. Inside the walls are lined with them, floor to ceiling, piles in the corners. It is almost too much.... I’d like one of each please.
Seriously, it becomes so overstimulating I have stop and focus on what I might use it for…

 In the other direction past the entrance there are three alleys of mostly women producing clothing, sitting at their sewing machines surrounded by the already created shirts, suits and dresses inside and out of their individual workstations. Taking pictures can be challenging. The locals do it all the time but as soon as I point, they want money or they object.
This day though, we were done, and walked out without looking at the clothing. Outside the vendors along Commercial line both sides of the sidewalk in front of the market. We picked our way through then  down the road to a small juice bar where we had a salad, a guava juice and reflected on our next moves.

Field trip on the Ring Road-Menchum Falls- Bafut to Befang and back

After some time the city, meetings, research and visits to the farm aren’t enough. We want to see some of this country so called a friendly taxi driver to take us on a tour.
 First stop the Bafut market to pick up a few snacks. Then to a nearby bar for some white mimbo or palm wine followed by a stop at a spring for some fresh water.
The road out of Bafut is dusty, clouds of it settling on the bananas turning their leaves red, Potholed and rough in places we swayed back and forth as Eric the driver negotiated each stretch and avoided oncoming trucks and minivans. The road twists and turns into valleys, around mountains,  past villages and farms. These smallholdings with minimalist rectangular redbrick buildings, unplastered and roofed with corrugated “zinc”line the road between sections of forest and  field. Often there were children and occasional adults staring as we drove past.  Upon spotting our faces the children would chant “whiteman, whiteman” to which I, as often as possible, waved in reply.
The road began to descend, briefly became paved and as we approached each corner Eric honked a warning. Often there were great holes, missing pavement, bone jarring drops and it wasn’t always possible to avoid them. But the terrain was spectacular, miles of mostly untouched tropical forest the mountains draped in shades of green punctuated with flashes of orange and red flowers. Valley and hill as far as the eyes could see without any evidence of cultivation.This is the sacred Bafut forest, protecting the watersheds and vegetal heritage of the kingdom. Unfortunately for the photographers it wasn’t possible to stop, although that narrow view seldom expresses the majesty and verdant fecundity of the scene.As the road again levelled out we crossed over the  Menchum river and  entered a broad valley.

Rice growing alluvial landscape, fields separated by ditches and flapping clothing suspended on sticks to scare away the birds. The elephant grass easily 3 metres tall where it wasn’t hacked down and piled beside the road. There were numerous highly rutted access roads down to the water where young men and boys poled their broad canoe shaped boats back and forth.

The boys dive down with buckets, scoop the sand into the boats then shovel it onto shore to be loaded later into trucks and transported to Bamenda. For a brief while we were tailed by one of the trucks, coming up behind us as we scraped our way out of one of the biggest potholes I’ve ever been in. The side of the road even with the windows of the taxi. Definitely don’t try this in the rainy season.
I attempted to take notes on this trip, writing the occasional undecipherable word as we careened and bumped along till pavement appeared again. Eric would then accelerate till the pavement gave way while I attempted to read the occasional sign naming each village.

It was quite warm in the car, the mimbo in the recycled soda bottles continuing to ferment, building up  pressure. We had the windows open but every passing vehicle would raise such clouds of dust we were rolling them up in  fruitless attempts to keep it out.

Crossing the river again we came into an area of grasslands, the rolling mountains denuded of trees except in the narrow clefts and valleys between hills.

 Then again beside the river and arrival at the falls.
  Just below the road is a small picnic area and viewing spot with a cement fence to keep folks back from the sheer drop.

 Impressive.
 A tremendous amount of water cascades down with incredible turbulence sending spray out  from top to bottom. Not much if anything would survive that fall. We stepped back and enjoyed our picnic, slowly releasing the pressure on the  warm mimbo  till we could drink it.
























Then a short drive down to the crossroads at Befang; north to Wum and west to Benakuma.

By this time we’d had enough of the driving and chose to turn around.

 Stopped at the top of the falls to wet our faces and watch the boys shovel sand from boat to shore.

And again at the bailey bridge to take pictures,  then caught a few views as we climbed out of the valley  on our way towards Bafut.

 The road was not any less bumpy on the return.

Buea to Bamenda

The generosity and friendliness of Cameroonian people is remarkable. Our hostess in Buea, Rose, arrived early to drive us to the bus on Sunday morning herself, dispensing with her driver so she could attend church. Traffic was light and after unloading all our baggage we thanked her for her  kindness promising to stay in touch.
 Busses here are an adventure by themselves. Our 8 o’clock departure  actually left at 10 what with loading everyones' bags, root crops, furniture: a couch and two matching stuffed chairs. (Moving van? whats that? )  on the roof. Passengers getting on and off, buying food and water for the trip and  possibly reselling tickets for already sold seats. Likely the folks who arrived with their complete kitchen cabinets, disassembled but well past the projected departure time, wanting their kitchen pieces piled on top of the now tarped and ready to go pile will be taking a later bus.
We had purchased tickets for front seats assuming, incorrectly there would be more leg room. That seat is beside the passenger door where everyone who enters the back of the bus must rest their arms as they haul themselves over the folding seats between seats where one expects an aisle…. So in the case of a quick exit it might be advised to use a window. However.
When we finally left, behind us a fellow stood in the entrance preaching away until the next stop, (barely 15 minutes) where he collected coins and exited the bus. At first I thought he was giving a safety speech, but he never stopped talking and the frequent insertion of Jesus, Almighty Father and other familiar expressions soon cleared up that misunderstanding.
The moment the bus stops there are women children and young men hawking things at the windows. Squared loaves of white bread mostly, groundnuts, bottles of pop, boiled eggs and occasionally bananas. Further north we were offered tangerines, kola nuts, more white bread and bobolo: thin sausages of cassava  wrapped  in banana leaf. Mostly tasteless, the consistency of rubber,  a translucent worm of starch accompanying most street food here.
As the bus motored on we passed through numerous towns, police checks and some spectacular scenery climbing from a broad valley switch-backing up a bamboo covered mountain. Even on this steep hillside folks are carving out their farms to grow what food they can. Much of the countryside has been transformed by people cutting down the trees to grow corn and cassava.
Sitting up front we had a great view of approaching buses and trucks, like the fuel carrier apparently leaking/spraying (I hope ) diesel on our windscreen. I was surprised the driver, when we finally stopped for a bathroom and food break, didn’t bother cleaning it off.
There were a few scary moments as approaching passing cars and trucks swerved last minute back into there lane and when our driver suddenly swerved off the road as an even bigger bus passed us while another equally large bus approached in the opposite lane the whole busload heaved a sigh of relief.
The last 40 km were the longest. I have never seen a road in such bad shape to a major destination. This is the route,  only way into Bamenda from the south. Every bus, freight truck and I assume any government officials must travel this potholed, bone cracking, jerky excuse for a road. It took us almost two hours to finally reach our destination. Darkness fell and we hauled our bags off to the side as it began to rain which then erupted into a drenching downpour. Welcome to Bamenda!

Bookstores

I love bookstores. Wandering the aisles, searching out my favourite classifications to see what the latest author has to offer, browsing the pages of some beautiful coffee table extravaganza. Almost as entertaining and satisfying as visiting a library where I can take those books home! At least briefly.
But here in Bamenda Cameroon, I've had to readjust my assumptions and expectations.
 My experience of bookstores has taken a giant leap... sideways. It's not that there are not bookstores, there are.
Along Commercial Avenue I spotted the Simplicity bookshop, Academic bookstore and College bookstore to name just a few. I had some specific interests I wanted to explore; some technical tomes on indigenous flora, maybe a few local authors  for their perspectives, something about Cameroon itself, local geography, history....

Cue in the sound of the NOT buzzer from some game show.


First of all most of those "bookstores" have a large counter just inside the entrance preventing entry. The few books available are shelved out of reach behind the counter and are either religious or elementary to secondary school texts. And there are precious few of them.



They do have stationary, pens and paper, but are just as likely to be selling; clothing, cookies, onions, appliances or miscellaneous hardware.

As for any technical books... after a long search into every bookstore I saw, we found in one, a few copies of a moth or silverfish eaten agricultural text that seemed too outdated to be useful. Nothing else.

 Across the boulevard are the street vendors, their carts piled high with used and new school texts, photo albums, daily calendars, diaries and scrapbooks.

Browsing here is very different. Each of those used and  sometimes ratty looking paperbacks  represents more forcefully the bottom line for these guys. I'd pick one out and there would be the vendor already to wrap it up and offer me another.

 With patience and some tips from more experienced buyers, I was able to negotiate a better price and find some of what I was searching for. Used of course.

One day I visited one of the local Universities with another volunteer.  Her research had led her to search the stacks in the library there, where we found a text book recently written and published locally by one of the professors at that same  University. Is this book for sale somewhere?
Unfortunately he had passed away, so we asked the fellow there to contact his wife as we wanted to purchase ....
Cue in the buzzer.


Other than those street vendors, and this one in particular, I 'm convinced there is a culture of non engagement with literature here, no one can answer my questions about specific books almost no one even seems to know what I'm talking about!
Case in point , the local "library" The custodians of the books , the librarians, don't seem to know what they have, the card file is not accessible, the books I saw were all donations, out of date, used and abused. They did have a large collection of fashion and political magazines from France...
I won't give up though, I've heard there is a bookstore in Yaounde...

December 13  2013
I'm sitting here in Bamenda on a cool a grey morning looking out over the town below. The market as usual is busy with taxi's and motorcycles dropping off and picking up people loaded down with packages of things to sell or what they've purchased. From up here it's like watching an anthill peppered with tiny umbrellas, an occasional bus slowly working its way along the edge. Directly below us are houses, compounds mostly made of mud brick covered over with corrugated tin roofs. You can imagine what it sounds like when it rains. These buildings descend like steps, intermingled with bananas, papaya and mango trees down to the market. The sounds of people talking, yelling, banging away on metal, an occasional dog barking, children crying, laughing and playing mingled with loudly broadcast music and the ubiquitous honking goes on into the night daily.
Beyond the market the terrain rises slightly covered with concrete block buildings,  some apartments, but mostly business's. We walk that way frequently going downtown. One whole section is dedicated to car repair, parts and "service" the rusting hulks of cannibalized taxi's, vans and small trucks willy nilly lining the "roads". When it's been raining it is barely navigable on foot, rutted and potholed it turns into a quagmire with all the metal, broken glass and spilled oil unevenly distributed for blocks. The paved street two roads over to the right is like a racetrack, the taxis and motorcycles weaving up and down as the pedestrians squeeze between the parked cars and the live traffic, a constant stream of humanity walking back and forth with goods for sale on their heads, or delivering used car parts, business men in suits and women with babies.
 Not many tourists here, it's almost worth remarking when we see one. Ironically they seldom acknowledge me, some kind of denial that there could be anyone else having this unique experience, I know I've felt it myself, and read about others experiencing and describing it... Read any Pico Iyer? He nails a lot of the traveler's angst and dismay.
Beyond that commercial area up to the left a ridge with more apartment buildings rising up it's slopes and some open land at the top, likely a religious school or church grounds. Almost every educational facility here has Presbyterian or Catholic affiliations. And they seem to own most of the green space, beyond the individual garden plot everyone has to grow their sweet potato, corn or assorted yam varieties.


Behind all that there is more, and more of the same to the north and west but it's framed by cliffs that line the south east edge, houses and compounds climbing to the vertical limits.  We climbed up those slopes a few weeks ago to view one of the waterfalls.

I find it incredible how people can manage to capitalize on the slightest amount of barely level ground and punch in a garden. Although the gardens themselves are not visible from here, I recently saw fires and smoke so assume they are doing slash and burn as we approach the dry season.
Up top in Upstation, the government officials, high rollers and gentry of the place have massive properties with even more massive "houses" among the very old mansions built during and since the Germans were here 100 years ago. Apparently the view up there is spectacular. It was hard to see through all the hedges, walls and fences erected around their properties.
The view from here is pretty amazing, the mountains beyond blocking the sun's rise until 6:45, later lit up as it sets. It's a constantly changing panorama when the smog/mist clears.

I've been reading an old travel guide; this place has tripled in size in ten years; you can well imagine the infrastructure  challenges. The folks next door down below have an outside shower and biffy and put out buckets to collect their water or walk a few blocks to a seemingly public "tap" which I first thought was a leaking waterline. It may be, but recently some enterprising individual poured concrete around the outlet and installed a pipe. Everyday there are kids surrounding it waiting with their used plastic "jerry cans" to fill up and haul off.
The dry time is coming, when the Harmattan blows sand and dust off the Sahara, blocking the sun for days at a time and dropping the temperature.
Not enough for a white Christmas though.