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.

The Fon's dance

Once a year the Fon (King or traditional leader) of Bafut hosts an amazing cultural festival the Bafut “Abin”. We have attended now 3 times and this year I danced. Finally!
 The official invitation  includes lunch with the Fon held on a grassy meadow below a massive tree to the left of the museum. At the top of the stairs to the museum, a guard let us through the gate. Chairs were spread along the stone fence overlooking the parade grounds and parking where the dance would take place. We arrived well after the stated start time and waited patiently for his highness, and everyone else to appear.
 When the Fon appears everyone  must stand, till he is seated, and the same when he leaves, till he’s out of sight. He sat flanked by his retainers in their tie dyed indigo ceremonial cloth “skirts”, shirtless, each holding a  2 metre spear.

To his right facing us (sort of, he was behind a small tree) dignitaries are placed according to some formula. Most of them know not to arrive too early, some managing to arrive as they were called up to eat into the serving line.
We sat in the shade, under a canopy till it was our turn to be called up.  The Princesses in traditional attire walked past and an almost endless procession of robed and hatted elites, relatives and invitees arrived. Beer was the chief liquid refreshment although there were also a variety of flavoured  bottled bubbling beverages available.
We were entertained by a local photographer tour guide, who found us to be interesting subjects dressed as we were in traditional clothing. This year I intentionally left my camera behind. Last year I spent most of the event staring through the viewfinder or at the display screen, attempting to capture the pageantry, sumptuous fabrics and embroidery  swirling around me.
It was not so bad at the festival, but I’ve experiencing some challenges taking pictures. The locals never seem to have an issue but my white face brings out resistance and demands for payment.

A number of familiar faces drifted by and we greeted and were greeted ourselves by old acquaintances and friends. This is a well attended opportunity to see and be seen, an annual gathering of the tribes. Family groups, dance groups and the like wearing similar fabrics, designating that they were representing some faction of the populace.
Once lunch was done we stepped out to sit together in one of the local bars while the traditional rites took place. Outside a continuous parade of brightly coloured robes and dresses passed by in the bright sunlight. A vendor came in and I bought a(nother!) hat. I’d noticed most men had a new one each year, so…
I spotted a group going past with swords, spears and bows and arrows so we finished our beers and wandered back through the throng. The crowd was growing, the bandstand full. We positioned ourselves in front of the sacred drum and watched a group slowly make it’s way towards us from the palace, beating drums and playing flutes.
The Fon and the Mayor stood out and blasted away with shotguns,

then the first group came chanting, brandishing weapons and posturing  to stand in front of the Fon and his party. The point of it all is to show they are fierce enough to protect and support the Fondom from attack. Pledging allegiance. But this year no other guns were fired and there were fewer groups or quarters represented.
And then the Fon  began leading a group of notables in the beginning of the dance. He made a small circuit, then sat down to watch. The drummers had maintained their rhythm and moved in closer to the centre.

As the Princesses passed by in a long line  sweeping their horse hair fly wisks in time with the beat, other folks tagged on. I was grooving to the beat and it just seemed natural to step in and follow along, with my cane in hand. The woman ahead of me was impressed and guided me through as we circled in a long oval past the spectators ringing the procession. Numerous cameras and cellphones caught me as I slowly shuffled along. As we approached the shrine she told me to face it as we danced past.
 As I passed the royal party, first the mayor and then the Fon , along with a number of dignitaries,  acknowledged me with raised fists or canes. I was able to respond in kind by lifting my cane.

After 3 or 4 passes both my guide and I were done and  we melted back into the crowd. As best I could anyway, being one of about 9 white faces in a sea of Bafut Cameroonians.
An incredible spectacle, I felt like a Bafut man dancing with the people.