There's a Juju in the bushes

Hello everybody. Hope all is well back in the land of milk and honey. As you may already know from my past rants March, April and May can be unbearable in the Extreme North. No rain, dust storms, lots and lots of sun, temps reaching 120 fahrenheit, and a sustained wind that feels even warmer. I imagine you could crawl into your oven at home and recreate something similar. I went through it last year without even having a fan, and while I lived to tell the tale, I had no interest of subjecting myself to the worst of it for a second year. Earlier in April two fellow volunteers and I extricated ourselves from the misery and took a few weeks of vacation on our way to the West region of the country to help train some newer volunteers in the Health and Agroforesty programs. This is how we got there:

Day #1- Its Thursday in Bogo so the central market is packed and Djamaaré Express minivans are leaving every ten minutes or so for Maroua. Sadjo, a young kid in my neighborhood who comes over to my house to play cards, soccer, and root through my trash is walking along with me. Neighbors and friends on the street all offer me a bon voyage, also asking me to bring them lots of fruits and vegetables. I do my best to seem unexcited about leaving, but no matter how much I enjoy living in Bogo I cannot deal with it in April. Sadjo leaves me at the bus station and a few friends in the market come over to wait with me for the next car. 1 hour later I arrive Maroua, flag down a moto taxi and make my way to the PC House. Its nearly 6PM but the temp is still brutal. Atleast here I can count on a cold beverage, running water and ceiling fans. Yes, I am very easy to please these days.

Day #2- Use internet, make sure I've got everything organised, and then go submerge myself in a hotel pool all day. On a hot day I can not think of a better way to spend 1500 francs (3-4 bucks) than on entrance fee to a hotel pool.

Day #3- Normally I would take a bus directly to Ngaounderé in the Adamaoua region (central Cameroon), but today I am taking the 3 hour bus to Garoua in the North. I haven't seen my host family the Hamatoukors for a long time and feel I should pay them a visit. Sure, I didn't exactly like living with them for the first three months as a trainee. Sandy potatoes every night for dinner, water that not even my filter could not completely clean, and a few instances of items going “missing.” Nonetheless, for three months they gave me a roof to sleep under and introduced me to the culture in a way no class or instructor ever could.
After pulling into Garoua I stop in the central market and fill a bag with bananas and pineapples for the family. I really enjoy getting gifts for people here and I wish it were this easy in the states. You would all get fresh produce from me for Xmas and birthdays. Arriving at my old home away from home I am shocked to see how in just one year's time the three youngest children, Aila (11), Mahdi (12) and Mohammet (15) have grown in leaps and bounds. When I left in December 2008, Mohammet was squeaky voiced, toothpick thin and a full 6 inches shorter than me. Mohammet is still as skinny as a rail, but he may have an inch or two on me and he no longer screams like a little girl when I mess with him. I told him to start playing basketball at school. The way he's growing he'll be close to 7 feet before I leave in 8 months.
I spend only a few hours with the Hamatoukours and then return to central Garoua. Its Saturday and Manchester United is playing Chelsea. Manchester plays like a drunk intramural team, Chelsea wins, and I've been going back and forth with two Cameroonians supporting Chelsea during the entire match. Despite the heckling between us during the game we part with no hard feelings. But Chelsea still sucks. Back to the bus station to go another 4 hours to Ngaounderé. Yet we don't leave the station until about 4PM, and stopping along the way twice for evening prayer delays our arrival in Ngaounderé until about 10PM.

Day #4- Today is a rest day. Ngaounderé is built upon a plateau and hence the weather is often beautiful. Waking up at 10AM is unheard in my neck of the woods but is surprisingly easy here. If I'm not out of bed in Bogo before 7AM the temperature begins to rise quickly. Rather than taking the train south to Yaoundé tomorrow (the usual southern route), we are traversing the Adamaoua province which has some of the worst roads in the country. Our hope is that in about 3-4 days time the Adamaoua will spit us out somewhere in the West or Northwest regions.

Day #5- Ngaounderé to Tibati. Traveling by road in the Adamaoua always promises to throw some curveballs your way. Whenever I speak to volunteers who live in this region and ask them about the length of their trips to Ngaounderé from their posts I am always shocked. A typical response is “anywhere between 6-12 hours,” or “8 hours if it isn't raining.” Well what if its raining? “You don't go” or “ You stop where you happen to be at that moment” seem to be the most common responses.
Arriving at the Narral Voyages station at 6AM we are waiting for the first bus to Tibati. The chef d'agence is in a surprisingly good mood this morning and offers us the 2 front seats. Unfortunately there are three of us, so one will have to squeeze into the back where they typically squeeze 6 people or more into a row made for about 4. I am the tallest of the group and one of the more unpleasant when it comes to uncomfortable trips so I think that qualifies me for one of the front seats. Volunteer 2 is a man so if we are thinking in Cameroonian terms here he would definitely get the second seat before Volunteer 3, who is a female volunteer and has already displayed incredible courage by choosing to go cross country by bus with Volunteer 2 and I. Volunteer 3 was in the ladies room while the decision was made. Luckily she was a good sport about it. After about 8 hours we pull into the city of Tibati. Its not a huge town, but pretty much every “major road” in the country intersects here, and trucks roll through at all hours of the day. After a ride like that we go around the corner to the New Texas Bar for some much needed refreshments. A few cold ones and a large platter of grilled fish, manioc batons and hot sauce occupy us for the better part of the evening. Finishing up in town, an Austrian doctor in town that we are friends with offers us shelter for the night at a nearby private hospital. Arriving at the hospital grounds around midnight, all three of us are ready to crash in the staff quarters. Unfortunately for our Austrian friend, the head doctor (also Austrian) comes in and requests his help on a surgery that evening.

Day #6- We awake early and get ready to hit the road once more. Today we strike out from Tibati to the town of Banyo, our last stop in the Adamaoua region. It is a 7 hour ride in the best of conditions on a mountainous dirt road. Our doctor friend will not be waking up to see us off this morning as he was in surgery from midnight until 6AM. A Cameroonian who works there as a carpenter offers us a tour of the sprawling hospital before we go. The hospital could almost be considered a completely self sufficient community. In addition to the actual hospital there are homes for employees, a garage staffed by a mechanic, a church, a woodshop and numerous small plots of land under cultivation. Its obvious to me that the hospital is incredibly well run, organised and funded. Yet I've always had a weak stomach when in or around hospitals in this country. I doubt I could ever work in a health field here or any other place for that matter. There's no need for me to be anymore descriptive than to say that the hospital is bursting at the seams with those in need of care, some of the illnesses are gruesome, especially those suffered by small children and infants, and its not unreasonable to think that hospitals such as this that are scattered throughout the country might only be scratching the surface.
Late morning we hop on the vehicle and start towards Banyo. This vehicle has less people than cargo today and its really much more comfortable. In addition to the other passengers we are sharing the vehicle with 2 goats, 5-10 large sacks of millet and about 400 liters of honey. Also aboard are two soldiers brandishing the usual large automatic weapons, no doubt members of the Cameroonian special forces unit. A number of these guys are posted in Bogo and are tasked with preventing bandits and hijackers from robbing people of their livestock out in the bush, especially on our market days. I often see them at the bar, still brandishing automatic weapons, and just generally scaring the shit out of people. But alas, there is literally nothing between Tibati and Banyo and the road is beyond terrible, so I have to say having these two guys along with us today is slightly comforting.
The trip was a long and arduous 7 hours, but it could have been much worse. Banyo is a pretty town tucked away in the hills of the western Adamaoua. I would come here more often but Banyo could possibly be one of the most inaccessible cities in Cameroon. To the east, its atleast 16 hours to the regional capital Ngaounderé. To the west its a 8 hour drive (once again, thats the best case scenario) to Baffoussam, capital of the West region. Arriving in Banyo we leave the station, turn the corner and sit down at a bar. This is becoming a daily trend but after travelling roads like these my nerve endings are frayed due to the erratic driving, cramped quarters and various close calls. We are staying with a volunteer that trained with us in the North. Understandably we have seen her maybe once since our training ended due to her extreme isolation. I think part of me expected to show up in town and find a half crazed volunteer eating insects, writing jibberish on her walls or perhaps something not unlike Anthony Hopkins in Instinct. This obviously proved to be false. I think the isolation of this town, with the beautiful weather and the winding roads through the hills, only adds to its attractiveness.

Day #7- We sleep in as long as possible but today we have the 8 hour ride to Baffoussam. Volunteer 3 is a real team player as she lets Volunteer 2 and I take the front seats again. The trip is uneventful save for two flat tires, but these guys deal with flats everyday and work with the efficiency of a pit crew. It's night by the time we pull into Baffoussam, the third largest city in the country. I think the actual voyage between Banyo and Baffoussam is 8 hours. Not today, however. As we pulled into a town at the midway point we discovered there was no gas; about an hour delay in all. Then during the last hour we hit four police, customs, miltary, etc. checkpoints. One person in the van didn't have their papers in order so the officials at each roadblock went through the same song and dance, demanding money, threatening to arrest the man, and giving the driver plenty of trouble as well. Baffoussam is not exactly a town you want to be wandering around in the dark. Getting out of the van we get the first taxi in sight and head to a hotel for the night. The three of us look like something just chewed us up and spit us out. I can only imagine what the night manager is thinking. Hot shower, grilled fish and manioc, beer, bed.

Day #8- Four hour drive to Bamenda, capital of the Northwest region. Continue another three hours to the village of Kumbo where we will spend the rest of the week enjoying the Ngonsso Cultural Festival.
Cultural Festival- This entire week the Nso people of the Kumbo region were having their cultural festival outside the Fon's (King) Palace in Kumbo. During the day thousands of people descend the hill towards the town square, palace and mosque. The first activity I witness is a long parade of all the various community groups in the area decked out in their finest outfits carrying large placards describing their organization. They approach the palace and most groups stop for a few minutes in the main square to do some dancing. Around the corner from the palace is a primary school that has been turned into a make shift palm wine bar for the festival. Experiencing this cultural festival to the fullest is the only item on our agenda this week so we shortly find ourselves sitting around a couple large bottles of the cloudy beverage that is so popular in this area of the world. There are a few festival goers that appear to have hit the palm wine a little hard already this morning. No such thing as palm wine in the North so I'm a greenhorn here. A few glasses of the stuff, which has a strong taste of yeast and vinegar, and I find myself more nauseous than buzzed. Drinking more palm wine will not be on my agenda of cultural exploration this week. I'll stick with bottles 33 Export and Gold Harp.
During our quick stop at the primary school to drink homemade booze the volunteers who live in the area begin telling us more of what to expect during this festival. It sounds less like a benign rundown of the agenda and more like an ominous warning of impending danger. The main reason for this I discover, are the jujus. In Kumbo jujus are present at festivals such as this in addition to the funerals for members of the Palace. They are highly respected/feared by people here, and the first bit of advice I receive for my upcoming run ins with them is bow down, don't look at them and don't run. Very comforting.
Returning to the square I see a number of jujus who have entered the center of the square. They are all in matching tan fabric with painted designs, and their head and limbs are completely covered in what looks like burlap. These jujus seem to be at the bottom of the pecking order. Most of them, despite being covered head to toe appear to be between the ages of 5-15. I'm beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about when across the square I see a juju break rank, run into the crowd and crack someone over the head with a tree branch. Did I forgot to mention that they are carrying tree branches, sticks and clubs? My head is on a swivel for the rest of the afternoon. Luckily we have a safe house in the middle of town; a bar that serves up what I can only describe as some of the best chicken in the country, served with equally delicious fries and djama-djama (similar to collard greens). From the patio one can see all the happenings going on below. From time to time the owners shut the front gates of the bar, a sure sign of impending danger. Hoardes of festival-goers move about the town not unlike schools of fish, no doubt hoping their power in numbers will spare them a stick over the head.
The evening arrives and we return to the main square. Beaufort, a Cameroonian brand of beer, is sponsoring concerts and games all week. Most games involve dancing and singing. One game I witness on the main stage consists of contestants coming up from the audience and reaching into a crate of Beaufort with one hand, pulling out as many bottles as possible. Simple yet rewarding. Everybody's a winner! To cap the evening the organizers have booked Richard King. I'm told he is originally from the Kumbo area. These days he is a very popular singer in Cameroon and has performed a few times in the USA among other countries. If you read my recent blog, “Women's Day,” I must tell you that Richard King blows Roukaiya Moubalwa out of the water as far as stage presence. He doesn't lip sync and actually looks like he's enjoying himself.

Day #9- Back to the palace for the climax of the cultural celebrations. Today the jujus are out in full force. We are at a small watering hole next to the palace with a sidewalk view of everything. The jujus from yesterday are present in large numbers, but there are more elaborately dressed and masked jujus appearing. After an hour or so most of them are congregated in the courtyard in front of the palace dancing, jumping, running into the crowd on a whim, etc.
Around midday we get word that the “really bad” juju is going to appear very soon. Where he is coming from we have no idea, but I'm assured that you'll know when he shows up as the thousands of people in attendance will basically lose their minds and frantically jostle for a safe perch in or around the main square. There must be somewhere between 5-10 thousand people in just this central neighborhood right now and my more cautious side tells me that this could work out very poorly if people get too spooked. Not only are the jujus periodically brutalizing the crowd, but policeman and palace guards have also taken up sticks and are not afraid to use them for crowd control. At this moment I am seriously conflicted in my emotions. Shocked, curious, scared as hell, confused, amused. They all apply in different ways.
Suddenly about 50 metres to our left up the hill, dozens of people jump from their previously safe viewing spot and haul ass to the other side of the street. Behind where they were, the brush and weeds are shaking furiously yet its not yet possible to see who's doing it. Finally the juju we've been hearing so much about emerges and the place goes nuts. He is covered from head to toe in black burlap, with various leaves strung about his body. Perhaps the only part of him that is visible is a large mane of dreadlocks on top of his head. In one hand he's got a half dozen wooden spears. Anyone within range has crouched down and avoided making eye contact. Running away appears to be out of the question. The area where this is happening is right near by the palace's burial grounds. I've walked by the entrance a few times this week but only members of the palace are permitted inside. Not sure if there is any symbolism behind this. While doubtful, perhaps he was just at the nearby palm wine bar beforehand getting sufficiently lubricated to harass the Kumbo populace to no end.
This juju is highly skilled in the art of scaring people. His looks alone are kind of creepy. He is carrying spears which he has wasted no time in using, hurling them indiscriminately into the crowd. Despite the obvious disadvantage of having his face covered he is surprisingly quick and nimble. When he decides to make a run into the crowd a shockwave of panic sends hundreds leaping over walls, running up hills, diving into nearby buildings. He's been working the other side of the town square for some time now, and hundreds of people have gathered in front of us as the crowd continues to flow according to the juju's movements. Then it happens. I don't actually see it happen, but panicked voices become more numerous and much closer. The juju has come to our side where at this point there are far too many people. I am with about 5 other volunteers and in front of us is the entire crowd. About 10 feet behind us is a wall and assorted buildings. One second I saw the backs of peoples heads as they too were watching the middle of the square. In a split second all those heads turned and I instead was staring at nothing but faces with looks of panic upon them. I think if I were an antelope or wildebeest and a lion came charging into our herd it would feel something like this. My first choice is to turn and run into a wall at which point i imagine I'll be trampled. Choice number two is to side step this stampede, but its far too late for that. Choice number three is to push back, which worked for about two seconds until wave after wave of people kept piling up. At that point it was either go with the flow or fall down under this human mass. While I don't think it would've ended too badly, and the massive push stopped short of the wall, a tiny voice inside my head was saying that I was in an extremely precarious situation. “Dozens trampled at Cameroonian Cultural Festival” doesn't seem all that far fetched for a BBC headline.
As the dreadlocked juju continues his reign of terror a large contingent of jujus emerges from the palace. There are jujus covered in feathers wearing elaborate wooden masks surrounding a few others that are walking high above the mayhem on stilts. All of these jujus are surrounded by the young jujus who just yesterday were taking great joy in hitting everyone on the head. They slowly advance towards dreadlocked juju and he gradually retreats up the hill, still doing his best to mess with everyone in his path. At one point he even scales the front of a three story building in an effort to escape what I can only describe as some sort of staged battle between the good and evil jujus. Some poor unsuspecting man emerges onto the veranda of this building just as the evil juju hops over the railing. Understandably he dives back into the building, locking the door and shutting the windows.
We decide that this is the perfect moment for us to retreat to our safehouse which is the bar at the top of the hill that has metal gates and a good vantage point; a fortress with cold beer, if you will. Approaching the top of the hill my two traveling companions and I discover that evil juju reached the top before us. Turning the corner at the top we are dangerously close to him and waste no time jumping into a narrow alleyway of the main street. Peeking around the corner I see that traffic and commerce are at a standstill as the juju stands by a call box at one of the main intersections. I doubt he is there to buy phone credit so we stay put for a few minutes. He advances past us and starts troubling a bush taxi that is caught up in the gridlock. I snap a few photos while his back is turned and then make a dash for our fortress.
The show is far from over and every hour or so the patrons lock the metal gates and we witness the mayhem from the patio as the juju drama moves around throughout the town. It becomes almost comical towards the end. Seeing it from this vantage point I first hear a few distant screams and yelling. That develops into the sound of a thundering herd of voices, pounding feet and vehicle horns. Shortly after I see from any of the four streets meeting at the intersection below a flood of people, motos and cars going in one direction followed not far behind by a juju or group of jujus. Sure enough a few minutes later an almost identical crowd comes rumbling past from a completely different direction.
The next day I felt like hell. I didn't get brutalized by any jujus but the constant running, dodging and emotional stress definitely took its toll. I think this may be what its like to be some unfortunate creature further down the food chain. My head was still on a swivel, sure that at any moment a juju would jump out and take off after me and use me as a pinata.

Day # Who knows- I had enough of being preyed on by evil spirits. I bid farewell to Kumbo and the Northwest region making my way to the Western city of Foumban, which is another seat of a traditional king, the Fon of the Bamoun people in this case. The next few days were spent helping with a Peace Corps training for other volunteers. I added my two cents by discussing my work with mango orchards and my collaboration with the Cameroonian agricultural research center in Maroua. Later in the week another Extreme North volunteer and I shared our experiences with the Men As Partners program. This was a project we assisted on during February in Maroua which involved working with about two dozen HIV+ men and boys on topics ranging from basic facts on HIV/AIDS to domestic violence, substance abuse, and cutural perspectives on men's behavior.


After the vacation and training I made quick work of getting back to the north so as not to neglect ongoing work in Bogo. I've been back for almost three weeks now and unfortunately the rains have yet to begin in force. A shower here or there that doesn't even wet the ground. Yet the wind comes with it and knocks out the power everytime which means no fan or cold water.

**This blog entry would be much better with pictures, and i have many good ones. Unfortunately I left my camera cord in Bogo and cannot yet upload them yet. So..I hope my next entry will be photos to supplement what you've just read here. With that said I'll end with a few small thoughts on the trip

-The route between Bamenda, the regional capital of the Northwest, on the ring road to the town of Kumbo is one of the more beautiful drives I've ever been on. Sharing this drive with 8 people in a 5 seat hatchback did little to diminish the amazing landscape of lush green valleys and imposing stone peaks.

-If there is one good thing about the hot season in Bogo, aside from the bounty of mangoes, its the constant supply of electricity. This is due to the lack of gale force winds that accompany the thunderstorms in rainy season. Yet in late April I returned to Bogo after a three week absence. This absence was not accidental and served to avoid the worst of the heat. Unbeknownst to me a thunderstorm came to Bogo unseasonably early this year and knocked down numerous power poles on the the road to Maroua. We were without power for seven days. This is never a problem during rainy season as it happens frequently and the temperatures are bearable. But when the 110 plus temperatures return and the power doesn't, I begin to consider community projects with themes such as “Let's all move somewhere else” or “Solar powered refrigerators.” The power company finally got their act together and the power was back. I hugged my fan.

-Three weeks without speaking fulfulde may have been beneficial. Sometimes it seems as though there's not sufficient time to process all the new words and phrases I hear. I butcher fulfulde on a daily basis here but neighbors, friends and colleagues kindly continue to encourage my debasement of their language. Though it's a two way street as often eager children will pass me on the streets in the evening and greet me with an exuberant “Good morning madam!”

-Returning to the Extreme North last month it was impossible not to consider the staggering difference between the North and South of Cameroon. After seeing green things and feeling rain for three weeks down South I found myself at the tailend of my return trip on a bus about 50km away from Maroua. The sun had set and the parched surroundings were no longer visible. To the east of the highway towards Chad a massive thunderstorm was at work on the plain, presumably knocking out Bogo's power in the process. The moisture was far off but just then a tumbleweed rolled across the path of the bus and was followed by a dust storm that induced the bus into a sphincter tightening sway. Visibility went to nearly zero for the next half hour, but the dust began to disperse in time to catch a distant view of Maroua's lights. Cool temperatures, frequent rain and copious amounts of fruits and vegetables are once again a thing of the past but strangely enough the Extreme North feels somewhat like home.

-Back to the topic of jujus, I asked during the festival whether the numerous jujus running around scaring the hell out of people had some other profession for the rest of the year. We did not get into specifics, but yes, these jujus are otherwise normal members of the community. That taxi driver could be one! That kid selling eggs in the market could be one! They could be anywhere! Believe me when I say I'm not trying to draw any major parallels here but it reminded me a bit of Santa Claus in the US. I can only imagine that Santa impersonators are likely to have some sort of gainful employment outside the holiday season. Yet I imagine being Santa Claus isn't nearly as fun as being a juju. Santa Claus just sits in the mall and scares little kids. A juju gets to run around town acting like a complete jerk and scare everyone.