Culture, Then and Now

I’m not a big fan of ‘tourist attractions’ but… We visit Boma’s of Kenya in Nairobi, a museum offering ‘traditional dance” performances, a restaurant and a number of recreated family clusters from many of the traditional tribal groups. Multiple wives need multiple residences, at least in this country. They also have multiple granaries and some have an inner wall to keep the livestock out of their bed. All made of mud with thatched roofs. The granaries were mostly very large baskets, some also plastered with mud and all belonging to the women.Visiting these little groupings was almost like a trip around the country, somewhere around 30 of them; although by the end there were not so much groupings as examples of slightly different construction.
Speedily walking past the inevitable venders we continued on into the main hall to watch the dancing. Many of the seats in the large circular auditorium were lined with school children in uniform. Rows of red, yellow, brown, green and blue with tourists in groups breaking up the random colour schemes. That was worth a picture and I spotted a few tourists filming the audience although I chose not to.
The dancing was fairly vigorous  and entertaining. I cannot speak to it’s authenticity although the costumes were well made and dancers enthusiastic. A couple of the males would pull individuals out of the stands (mostly female) to the immense appreciation of the rest of us and in some cases embarrassment of the ‘volunteers’. After a number of these performances we made our way off the site walking  towards a nearby shopping centre, passing by a group of baboons nonchalantly checking out the garbage bins around the perimeter.
Another entertaining environment! I hadn’t seen so many white people since Europe, once we got past the security check and into the mall. I scored big, finding a number of packages of my favourite chocolate… no longer available back home, I bought all  they had assuming it was the end of the stock. (Days later in another mall I saw more but I restrained myself).
We sat and had a hot drink  watching the parade of blondes and men in shorts, the occasional Africans with higher status and money hanging out with the colonials and tourists. Yes extremely judgemental but there we were and thats what I saw, or at least make up about what I saw. Your experience may be, no, will be different. It was quite pleasant, civil and enlightening and after looking through the arts and crafts market (where the vendors made complimentary comments about my Tanzanian shirt) we called ‘Little’ an Uber/taxi service and made our way through the traffic back to our friends’ residence for sundowners, conversation and dinner.

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.

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.

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...