Departing Douala

Our exodus from Douala Cameroon began with a taxi ride to another hotel. Douala is at the mouth of the Wouri river and is the major port for the country. Development has not kept up with growth and the once ample bridge built in the 1950’s is now a bottleneck. Construction on a new replacement is underway slated for completion in 2019 according to our driver. It towers over the existing structure which carries a rail line down the middle doubling as a passing lane although I doubt if much rail traffic crosses the bridge. During mornings and evenings it can take an hour or more to get across so during a lull we changed hotels.
The fellow pulling our luggage into the room said there was an early bus, that left at 8 so to get there by 6. We accordingly set our alarm and were ready to go before any breakfast (or especially coffee) was available. The driver misunderstood our request, taking us to an unfamiliar, complete war zone of a “bus station” Certainly there were structures masquerading as terminals, decrepit booths  with little roof and less seating. On top of which, at that hour, no one was selling tickets. The rain in the night had filled every pot hole and depression which along with months of garbage, refuse and discards made for a fragrant and unappetizing  prospect to walk through. The amused patrons of the stand we arrived at offered no suggestions. So we commandeered another taxi to take us to the “early bus” stand.
Arriving at the now familiar bus stand it was almost impossible to enter due to the narrow entrance and dedicated taxi drivers, motorcycles and pedestrians streaming in and out. Mayhem barely describes it. Elke alighted to go purchase tickets while our driver jockeyed with the other drivers and entrance guards. He managed to convince them to let him in to disgorge me and the luggage then quickly escaped. After dragging our bags under cover, I stood watching while the line slowly inched forward. It was a long line. Snaking from inside where patrons were seated on benches and shuffled forward as tickets were purchased back again on itself reaching around the roof supports and a pile of luggage, well past the building and onto the “sidewalk” behind.
Out in the yard taxis continued arriving  with more passengers. Trucks and buses came and went backing up slowly with liberal use of the horn as the motorcycles and pedestrians negotiated around the moving vehicles with little concern. Aplomb I believe it is.
A couple of women came up to us who had been at the previous bus “terminal” where tickets were apparently sold out. An explanation for the chaos was soon forthcoming… school start on Monday so everywhere families and children are returning. By 11 o’clock when our bus finally pulled out they had filled three and were working on the fourth.

Flying again..almost

I missed my flight. Arrived as it was leaving the terminal. After inserting my passport and a machine telling me I was too late, I suddenly realized my mistake. An addled and complacent brain had  associated 18:40 with 8:40 pm and I was quite out of luck. The sense of shock, vulnerability and disappointment was overwhelming, but my need to continue my journey pushed through this cognitive lapse towards a solution. My phone skills are not enhanced by a lack of hearing due to ongoing peripheral neuropathy, but I managed to extract another booking from the agent, while on hold I contemplated their advertising and muzak, the clock ticking on my limited airtime.
On a scale of traumatic incidences this barely deserves mention. I however felt devastated and impotent, out of synch with reality, ungrounded and adrift. Life goes on as usual, the skytrain whisks us all towards our destinations, the masses of people filing in and out on their way to whatever, where ever. I remained in this state of disbelief and disconnection for some time. Cancelling my train passage across Germany and booking a flight instead. Money talks. My previous obligations and agreements needing to be honoured and met.
 There is, for me, some security and well being, a sense of gravity or grounding in place when I am feeling safe and confident. This shook me deeply. I had made a mistake in calculation and by doing so lost my compass, my sense of knowing or taking for granted what I knew was up and relevant. And I was mistaken! Is this what losing one’s way is like? Dementia or Alzheimer’s? Scary to contemplate being unable to design my own path, control my destiny.  However, I was reminded on reflection of the impact living in a war zone might be like. Constantly aware of impending doom, drone strikes coming out of an empty blue sky. My troubles pale in comparison.
 I have a ticket out of here thanks to the good will of the airline and possibly my entreaties on the phone. No extra financial cost incurred as far as I can tell. So I will continue, a day later. Not much disrupted except for my mental state which once I’m in the air I assume will settle down and level off as I attempt to sleep on this redeye across the Atlantic. No point in sitting beside the window. Travel may broaden the mind but this modern age has us herded like sheep, willingly entering a mechanism that takes us anywhere on the planet. As long as we follow the rules. Always at the mercy of circumstance and our ability to pay. I do feel at times out of integrity with much of the population by my carbon footprint when I fly.
The complexity of it all is almost  beyond comprehension. Actually for me it is beyond comprehension. The number of people employed, all their jobs, technology and organization it takes to get me through security, immigration, booking flights and arranging ground transport reflect upon a massive structure supporting an even larger culture. This has been enlightening and scary, how easily I’m trapped into routine and ignore my sense of scale or context of the bigger picture. I get caught up in my stuff and lose track of the essential nature of paying attention. Mindfulness. Be there or lose your way eh?