Where the Wild Things Are

When you think of Africa, what most often comes to mind? I think many would first think of the exotic wildlife that can be found on the continent. In fact when first hearing of my plan to go live in Africa many friends back home offered pearls of wisdom such as 'don't get eaten by a lion' or inquired as to whether or not I'd be riding on the backs of elephants or zebras. The truth is that in my extensive travels around Cameroon for the past one year and nine months I have seen little to no wildlife. Domesticated animals aside, lizards, the occasional snake and plenty of mice is about all I've come across.
That's not to say there is no wildlife. I probably couldn't name a single species, but the country is known for its magnificent diversity of birds. Gorillas and various other apes can be found in remote jungle areas of the south. In fact just in the last few years CNN reported on a previously undiscovered population of lowland gorillas on the Cameroon/Gabon border numbering in the tens of thousands. In the north there are numerous wildlife reserves where lions, hyenas, elephants, giraffes, antelope and a host of other creatures roam. I'm barely touching on it but in short the biodiversity within Cameroon's borders is astounding.
In the Extreme North I am not far from Waza National Park which is considered one of the best in the West/Central African region. Bogo is about 60km south of the park so elephants pass our town periodically throughout the year on their endless search for fresh watering holes. However the entrance to the park is on the western side. A three hour voyage through Maroua, north to Mora and yet farther north to the actual town of Waza is required to enter.
My second (and last) dry season here is almost over, and this is by far the best time to see animals in the park as they often congregate around the last few dwindling water holes. I imagine the animals are pretty miserable. Little to no water, terrible heat, and a bunch of sweaty people with cameras being a nuisance. Seeing as it's my last best chance to visit the park two friends and I rented a jeep for the day to go see some of these animals in their most trying time of the year.
Our plan was to leave Maroua at 5AM and get to Waza around 7AM. That might give us just enough time to see lions and maybe even elephants before they retreated from the midday heat into some of the more inaccessible regions of the park. Our driver was on African time so we didn't get out of Maroua until 6:30AM. No lions or elephants, but here's a play by play on what we did cross paths with.

1st Encounter- About 10km south of Waza the road is running parallel to the park. On the right is the park; wide open savanna with the occasional scrub tree. On the left is more typical of Northern Cameroon; fields devoid of any plant life as a result of the recent millet and sorghum harvest. Assorted goats and cows lazily drag their noses across the ground looking for anything nourishing. We slow suddenly and just to our right on the shoulder of the road sit two light brown monkeys, ribs visible, staring at us with a very glazed over look as if to inquire if we've brought them anything. I'm pretty sure feeding the animals is a big no-no at any park. They lose interest before we do and wander back towards the park.
Getting to the park entrance, we sign in and pay our fees. One of my companions is Cameroonian and pays 1500 francs. The third person and I are both Americans with residency in Cameroon and we pay 3000 francs each. There are different categories, with visiting tourists paying the most at 5000 francs per head (about 10 bucks). All paid up and signed in, a park guide gets in the car with us and we head into the park.

2nd Encounter- Not far into the park we spot the first signs of life. Slowing down so as not to spook them we come upon three giraffes around a cluster of acacia trees nibbling the leaves off the thorny branches. As soon as we begin to approach their gaze is fixated on us. They retreat gradually as we come closer. We obviously mean no harm but I feel a bit guilty about running them off from the shade of the trees. There is little to no tree cover here and at 8:30 it is already brutally hot. As soon as we turn off the road towards them they bolt. We continue down the cracked earth and sand track and the giraffes take off in a gallop about 100 meters to our left and parallel to our path. Their long gait gives the illusion that they are painfully slow, but as the driver continues to increase his speed and the giraffes continue to outpace us its apparent that's not the case. The distance they can cover with just one long stride is striking.



3rd Encounter- Just down the road the fleeing giraffes have set off a mini chain reaction. We approach a few patches of brush where a couple of antelope emerge spooked by the commotion and waste no time in getting as far away from us as possible. A few seconds later a gruff looking warthog of generous proportions emerges from the bushes ahead of us. He looks to be more relaxed in his stride and at one point turns towards the side of our vehicle and charges with his head down for a few steps before making his way to an adjacent bit of scrub forest where he joins with another adult warthog and a few youngsters. We try to get as close as possible but our driver and guide are hesitant to anger warthog parents around their offspring. Sure we're in a vehicle and the warthogs are by no means the most physically imposing creatures out here. But they are angry, don't seem to appreciate visitors and brandish razor sharp tusks that can do some damage.

Hard to see, but a warthog family eyes our approach

4th Encounter- We advance a few more kilometers into the park and turn off the main trail and in the distance the guide spots a large group of ostriches. With good reason all the animals in the park want nothing to do with humans. We want a close look at the giant birds up ahead so the driver inches across the clearing as slowly and softly as possible. Yet we are in a bright red Jeep which doesn't exactly help us blend in. Coming up behind them on their left we get within 30 or so meters of them and they decide they've tolerated our presence for long enough. The giraffes gave us a sporting chance when they were escaping our attention. These guys appear even faster and while still large in their own right, they display a lot of agility on the run. They weave their way through the thickening scrub and within 30 seconds are out of sight. Too bad, as I could've gone for an ostrich steak and fries for lunch.


5th Encounter- It's late morning at this point and I'm hypothesizing that Waza is on average considerably hotter than Maroua and even Bogo. Later in the evening we'll return to Maroua and hear from another volunteer that it was 118 degrees in Maroua today. I want to see African wildlife in all its beauty, but I question the sanity of any animal that wanders out in broad daylight on a day like this. Unfortunately for the animals the only remaining water holes are almost all in direct sun with very little shade. So sane or crazy they really have no choice if they want a drink. It may speak more to our insanity that we're out here trying to watch them scratch out an existence in a near dead land. We hit a watering hole; devoid of stereotypical african wildlife but full off the birds that Waza is known for.


6th Encounter- Nearly noon and we have scoured most of the waterholes and shaded areas for any sign of lions. Getting up to the park late gave us little to no chance to find them and at this point in the day they are most likely far out in the bush taking naps and waiting for the sun to go down. We approach one of the largest waterholes still remaining for one last shot. There is plenty of shade here but no lions. Yet in the watering hole and all the surrounding trees is a staggering number of large birds of 5 or 6 different species. In the water they are packed together very closely, standing on their thin stick like legs. There are no crocs in Waza so these birds have nothing to worry about when soaking themselves.


My eyes are beginning to burn from the hot wind coming in through the car window and we've decided an hour or so with a cold drink in hand would do us some good. Exiting the park we have a few dining options available. There's the upscale and touristy Campement de Waza which I've heard has excellent food, but we're not tourists and getting up to and into Waza was expensive enough for volunteers such as ourselves. Instead we go into town and have a seat at a bar where a few mamas are cooking over their stoves in the backyard under the shade of a neem tree. I've had problems with Cameroonian cuisine (as I may have mentioned) but when prepared well and with a minimum amount of sand it's really delicious. I order a large Top Pamplemousse (grapefruit soda) and we each ask for a dish of whatever they've got on the stove. We are in luck today as we each receive a big bowl of white rice and another bowl of beef in peanut sauce. One of the mamas brings me my soda and apologizes that is partially frozen from the refrigerator. This is really no skin off my back, I tell her. The food is delicious (and cheap), but even under the shade and with a grapefruit slurpee in my hand the heat is so much that I can only stomach about half of the dish. I curse my feeble stomach and go back to work nursing my grapefruit slurpee to avoid overheating. After paying the tab we head down the street and buy a few cold bottles of water. This morning we thought we were clever in bringing more than enough water for the three of us. Unfortunately after just a few hours in the park we could brew tea with our old stash of bottled water.

7th Encounter- Back into the park to the few remaining waterholes we've yet to explore. Always in search of the big iconic animals of African safaris it can be easy to miss the more diminutive but equally impressive. One of my companions identifies something not so diminutive but difficult to spot in a far off tree. We approach slowly and get almost to the foot of a large but leafless tree on its own out on the savanna. On one of the middle branches rests what I think I considered one of my favorite sights of the day. All alone sits a gigantic eagle of a light brown color. Judging the distance between us it looks as though he would be waist height to me and is impossibly broad chested. We spend what felt like forever just sizing each other up, hoping all the while that he doesn't fly off. He doesn't seem too concerned by us. The animal is about twenty feet up in the tree and looks as though he eats village children for breakfast. He finally swoops down and makes his way effortlessly across to another tree. Sitting compact on the tree branch he looked imposing. Now displaying his wingspan he looks more like a pterodactyl. I've seen eagles in the United States, but they look like weenies compared to this guy. Field mice and rabbits? Mere appetizers...I think the antelopes around here better keep an eye to the sky.

8th Encounter- By mid May Waza National Park is at the end of a 7-8 month period of no rain. What is soggy/muddy marsh and grassland during the rainy season is now a parched and cracked expanse of earth with some dry patches of grass waving listlessly in the hot wind. Entering the park at this time of year I was wondering how life can, not thrive, but just make ends meet in such an environment. I come to find out that the answer for some of the unluckier or perhaps less adept inhabitants is that they don't. Flying down one of the main tracks back towards an area we wanted to double check, we came upon a large object off to the right of the road. At first sight it was assumed to be a termite mound, but getting closer the guide pointed out that it was an adult giraffe that died two days before. Laying on its side, its belly faced our vehicle and had been opened up by whatever scavenger had happened upon it before we arrived. It was a full grown giraffe and there was still plenty of it left for the vultures, hyenas and jackals. The guide explained that it had died of thirst just two days ago. It seemed unfortunate, at least for the giraffe, as not two kilometers away we had just stopped at a watering hole plush with acacia trees. Yet the way the giraffe was laying indicated that he was moving away from the watering hole when he finally gave up and hit the ground.

9th Encounter- We're back on a main track and I'm in a sweaty coma from the rice, beef and peanut sauce lunch, contemplating the hard luck of that directionally challenged giraffe. I'm jolted back to reality as the driver careens off the path towards two trees and the guide yells, “Laaru! Pobbi don haa to! Regardez ça! Il y a les hyènes là-bas!” Sure enough, two hyenas were tucked away under a shrub. At first sight one of them bolts for a second tree nearby surrounded by tall grass. The other stays where he is but stands up and circles the tree a few times trying to figure out what to make of this strange metal creature that's no more than 15 feet away. They are absolutely hideous looking with their dark fur, jet black eyes and bright red mouths filled with some impressively sharp teeth. When standing their sloping backs give them a bizarre posture. Their hind quarters look very small in proportion to the rest of their body but I don't think its so much that this part of their body is undersized but rather their head, shoulders and chest are massive. They are in full relaxation mode despite our arrival. The giraffe carcass is not far and I would imagine they have been eating very well the last day or so.

Hyena taking refuge from the heat

10th Encounter- Last stop of the day and we decide to hit the largest watering hole still remaining in the park in the hopes that the lions have started their evening activities early. No such luck. We come to the top of a hill, the only one I've seen all day, and as we come down the other side we set hundreds of antelopes into a panic towards the trees or the other side of the water. I'm sure if we hang around this herd for the evening we'll run into lion's soon enough. Unfortunately I don't believe normal visitors are allowed in the park after dark. I had wanted to stay atleast until dusk but after an entire day in this forbidding place I am ready to get back. Large wild animals aside, the road from Maroua to Waza is bandit territory at night if you are North of the town of Mora. Being relieved of my possessions would be a real downer, as meager as they may be, but we as Peace Corps volunteers are prohibited from traveling at night for good reason. The standard of driving is bad enough during the day. Add darkness to the equation and there is no reason, short of a life threatening situation, to be out on the roads at night.



So that was Waza for me. Amazing? Not quite amazing but I'll say it was definitely worthwhile. Wildlife excursions are hit or miss. I honestly don't blame the animals that stayed tucked away in the cooler confines of the more hard to reach areas of the park. I drank nearly six liters of water that day, plus another liter of ORS (Oral rehydration salts) upon returning to Maroua and my eyes were sore from the hot wind for two days after. I will say that everything we saw was inspiring. The massive eagle in the tree, the galloping giraffes, the thoroughly pissed off warthogs, the lightning quick ostriches, the frantic antelopes, and even the hideous but well fed hyenas. And to make it even better, we got back into Maroua just as the sun was setting, so there was no 11th Encounter with Kalashnikov-wielding Chadian bandits.

A Reverse Safari
If you ever come to Africa (and you should!), by all means visit a wildlife park or reserve. Virtually every country on the continent has some type(s) of exotic wildlife within its borders. Tourist dollars are obviously important to local communities, and can help better protect the many endangered species under threat from poaching and habitat loss.
But at the same time its a shame that so many people that visit Africa only go to these places, and do so in a manner that's completely out of tune with the continent. They fly into the country, stay at only the finest hotels, eat at the best restaurants, pay ridiculous prices for everything, get herded around the country in privately hired vehicles, and see the country from a car window. I stick out like a sore thumb everywhere, but you can spot these folks from a mile away. Reddened skin, sweating even more than me, and usually wearing something ridiculous that looks like it was stolen from Dr. Livingstone's wardrobe. Their contact with African people is limited to the help.
I remember last year I was biking out by the main road from Maroua where the pavement forks. One way leads into Bogo and the other way goes another 50km to Lake Maga. Maga, between November and April, is a popular spot for exactly this type of tourist. This man-made reservoir is a great place to spot hippos, and there is a hotel full with a bar/restaurant/pool that caters to large groups of westerners with far too much money. How do I know this? I've visited said hotel before and I think they marked me out as a grubby Peace Corps volunteer immediately. I bathed with soap that very morning and my clothes were at least respectable enough for a 2-3 star joint, but nonetheless I was treated like crap. The food and drink was astronomically expensive for an auberge out in the bush so I went out to the dusty streets of Maga for grilled meat and a cold beer for a fraction of the price. I'm not saying I'm too hardcore or too well integrated to spend my time in a tourist hotel. I just wanted to swim in the pool. What I am saying is that the smallest exchanges with people and the random things going on while I was eating freshly slaughtered cow washed down with a cold 33 Export were far more interesting than anything on a scheduled tour.
I digress. I was mentioning that a year or so ago I was out on my bike by the main road. I was returning to Bogo from a nearby village in the late afternoon and someone I knew was in a nearby field. There were no crops in the field, he had a confused “now how did I get here?” look on his face and I couldn't find any evidence that he was doing any work there. Nevertheless there he was in the field, and he began smiling and waving. I stopped my bike, he came closer to the road and we exchanged pleasantries. Cameroonians have a gift for the obvious. Asked what he was doing he said “I am in the field.” Yes, yes you are most definitely in the field, I thought. Nothing more to add. He was just in the field, and I was satisfied with this explanation. At this point I was not far into my service but all around Bogo I would run into friends and acquaintances in odd places out in the middle of nowhere where they really had no logical reason for being. Inquiring as to what people were doing (not where they were) I usually got answers such as “I am under the tree,” “I am in the room,” or my favorite a very demonstrative “I am supporting,” which I take to mean that he was “hangin' in there!”
So I am on the side of the road speaking to my friend who has graced this field with his presence today for no apparent reason. As we are talking a large bus approaches. Its going fairly slow and doesn't have anything attached to the roof so I'm thinking something is wrong with it. Funny how if I see a bus here that isn't loaded down with cargo and moving at light speed I assume that something is surely amiss. Passing us by slowly I see that this is not your average bush taxi. Its full of nasarras (white people), presumably French or German. I'm surprised to see them out here and my buddy nearly goes into shock from nasarra-overload. Its only after they have almost passed us by that I see from their confused look that they are equally shocked. I think I saw someone actually pull out a camera. They are now back home showing their loved ones this dirty white guy they happened upon out in the middle of the Sahel. It felt like a reverse safari trip for me. Should I approach the window and beg for a sack lunch? Should I run off into the field in terror to confuse them even more? I took the middle ground and waved to them. I received a few halfhearted waves back, but mostly just blank stares. I can only assume that they then yelled “don't stop!” to the driver.
One thing I find funny is that many of my Cameroonian acquaintances think that I know all white people. For example, I've given up trying to change their minds and have explained to a number of people here that, yes, I am indeed on a first name basis with Jack Bauer from the '24' TV show. After the bus filled with tourists passed us by my buddy inevitably asked “Who were they? Your friends?” If my friends passed me by on a dusty African highway I would hope they could at least stop to say hello and maybe inquire as to what I'm doing out here. I am at the side of the road! My friend is in the field!
So if I haven't made it clear by now, Africa is available to you and waiting for you to visit. Preferably while I'm still here to show you around! If you do take your chances of course you should pay attention to the safety information available, but don't let all the disheartening stories on the news keep you from seeing strangely beautiful places full of welcoming people. Stories about millions of Africans going about their daily lives with no problems whatsoever just doesn't make the news. Traveling here on a small budget or in an adventurous fashion is admittedly not for the novice, and I would never hold it against you if you chose instead to see Africa from posh hotels and the windows of air-conditioned cars. Just see it anyway you can. And if you see me out on the road while you're on safari feel free to toss me a sack lunch from the window.

An Afterthought
So it turns out that I didn't need to go to Waza National Park to see hyenas. Just the other day almost a week after our trip to Waza I was speaking with a friend in Bogo about what we had seen. I rattled off all the wildlife we had caught a glimpse of and then, perhaps because it was the most exciting moment of our trip, I mentioned that we had seen hyenas. He wasn't impressed in the least. Here I was feeling very proud of my hyena sighting, and he was having none of it. I almost felt insulted. In hindsight I have no idea why I felt so proud about my encounter with hyenas. We were in a wildlife park where one would tend to run into wildlife. It wasn't like I was stalking the beasts through tall grass carrying a spear.
I kept restating the fact that we had seen “hyenas!,” but he remained unmoved. This is because, as he nonchalantly told me, very late at night or early in the morning in Bogo hyenas come out of the bush and into the central market in town to look for any meat scraps lying around the butcher tables or food areas. He moved on to another topic as though large carnivores wandering our streets at night was a minor annoyance like something akin to, say, racoons in the trash bins or squirrels in the attic.
This bothered me in a number of ways. Firstly I had just paid money to roast my ass off all day looking for animals. Now I'm learning that a large predator of the African savanna strolls my town's market looking for midnight snacks. The hyenas were obviously the highlight of my day in Waza and now my friend has put it in no uncertain terms that I wasted a lot of money. Even with this new information at hand I would say Waza was still worth the visit. What bothers me a whole lot more is that I moved to Bogo in December of 2008. This conversation took place not long ago, in May 2010. If you are not picking up on my point yet, it took about one year and six months for someone to get around to telling me that hyenas frequent the marketplace at night!
I am usually in my home and most likely sleeping by 10PM at the latest. Depending on my work schedule I often find myself hitting the pillow not long after the sunset at around 7PM. Yet there have been a number of times when I've been on the Bogo streets later than usual. Walking back from the bar (through the market!) after a few drinks with friends on a Friday or Saturday night, returning from a dinner at a friend's home (also through the market!), or even being out and about for the occasional late night concert/soiree. I guess I can say no harm no foul on this one, but I know that if I lived in a town with this most unpleasant of nocturnal visitors I would let the out-of-towners know that they might want to keep their distance from the areas where hyenas may or may not be looking for a meal! Its not as if they were overwhelmed with other things to tell me about Bogo. “Hi Dan, welcome to Bogo. Here's the post office, here's the stadium, this is the bus station, this is the bar, and here's the central market. Oh and by the way, the hyenas come at night so don't come through here late or do so carrying a machete.” That's all I would have needed.
As a result of this unsettling discovery I've been casually slipping the topic of hyenas into the conversation at inappropriate times. Someone will ask me how my work is going or how I'm dealing with the heat, and I'll say something subtle like “Did you know that hyenas have some of the strongest jaws in the animal kingdom?” or “You know, when being chased by a pack of hyenas you should climb a tree, as they are not known for their tree climbing abilities.” Anything just short of getting upset because no one told me what I would consider to be very important safety information when living in Bogo.
Oh well, water under the bridge. I was never really too upset about it. Maybe just caught off guard. In fact I'm thinking it would be pretty sweet to spend the night in a tree at the market and catch a glimpse of them. Although I just recently watched the Lion King for the first time in I don't know how many years, so I'll be let down if the hyenas in the Bogo market don't sound like Whoopi Goldberg and Cheech Marin. Don't laugh, I downloaded movies from another volunteer and it just happened to be amongst the collection. To preserve my masculinity I'll say I was really just downloading the Bourne Trilogy and Generation Kill. But when the Hakuna Matata song came on I somehow instinctively knew all the words.

And Finally:
Seeing as how teaching Americans about the place where I live is a part of the job description of a PCV, today I'm providing you with a wildlife language lesson in fulfulde! My fulfulde is nothing short of awful, but I've gotten to the point where I can go about my day in village speaking almost nothing but the native tongue. I'd say that currently I speak it on the level of a six year old. I know you are all very excited to learn about a language that you will never have any use for, but I realized during the Waza trip that while I knew most useful phrases and expressions, my favorite being the verb meaning nothing other than “to milk a cow,” I knew no names of animals besides chicken, cow, dog, goat and sheep. With a little help from native speakers and my french-fulfulde dictionary here are the fulfulde names for some of the wildlife in my neck of the woods (although most don't roam the marketplace). Note that here fulfulde is translated into french so some sounds are a bit different. You will be quizzed on this material next month.

Rough fulfulde pronunciation
a and aa- “aah”
é and ee- “ay”
i and ii- “ee”
c- “ch”
ɗ- not quite certain...imagine saying “d” but cutting it off halfway through
ŋ- long n

English- Fulfulde(singular/plural)
Animal- ndabbaawa/dabbaaji
Big Antelope- kooba/koobi
Little Antelope- hamfurdé/kampuré
Bird- sondu/colli
Eagle- dutal/duté
Fish- liiŋgu/liɗɗi
Giraffe- tireewa/tireeji
Hyena- fowru/pobbi
Leopard- cirgu/cirɗi
Lion- mbarooga/barooɗé
Lizard- pallaandi/pallanɗepallaaɗé
Monkey- waandu/baaɗi
Mouse- domburu/dombi
Plant- fuɗŋgo/fuɗŋgooji
Scorpion- yaaré/jahé
Snake- mboodi/boɗɗé
Tree- lekki/leɗɗé
Warthog- gaduuru/gaduuji
Wild animal- takkeré/takké

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.

Cameroon In The News: May 2010

Cameroon police clash with journalists in Yaounde (BBC)

Cameroon's Kenya Airways crash blamed on pilot error (BBC)

Cameroon panic as elephants flee (BBC)

Cameroon says detained journalist died of 'infections' (AP)

Snail farming may save African apes from poaching (USA Today)

A Life In Pictures

Timshel Archibald: Dec 11, 2008 - Apr 14, 2010

My mother never let us have a dog when we were children. I now understand why. They are good companions and guardians, but are pretty much helpless and require great care. I imagine my mother knew most of this care would have fallen on her so she wisely had two cats in the house instead. I didn't know much about cats or any other housepet for that matter, but I became very attached to both of them. Cat, dog, hamster, monkey, river otter, whatever; I imagine I'd become fond of any creature that I took in as a pet as long as they didn't poop on the rug.

I wouldn't say I'm a "dog person" per se, but do like them for the most part. So last year around Christmas I arrived in Bogo, and living on my own for the first time ever I decided a dog would be great to have around. That's when fate brought me to a small mud and straw compound on the outskirts of Bogo.

To say Timshel came from rough beginnings would be an understatement. It is quite possible that the children in this same compound had fleas so what chance did a one week old pup have? I took the only remaining male of the litter (I didn't want anymore puppies on my hands) home with me that morning and he became Timshel. He didn't take to the water and mashed peanuts diet they suggested. That first night I imagine was very difficult for him. Eyes barely open, he would cry bloody murder if I left him alone for any amount of time. After trying to no avail to get him to quiet down, he spent his first night in a shoebox covered with a blanket at the side of my bed. Every hour or so he would let out a whimper but a few pets on the head would put him back into a sound sleep.

After another day of rejecting the mashed peanuts and water concoction (I tried it and cannot blame him), I got on the back of my friend's motorcycle with Timshel wrapped in a bandana. It would be the first of many trips we would take together to Maroua. Arriving at the Peace Corps house in Maroua shortly before Christmas there were many fellow volunteers around, and from that day on I don't think he ever lacked for love. Someone found a top to a baby bottle in the market and when attached to an old coke bottle filled with formula he would gorge himself until his belly was so swollen he could barely stand. It is never cold here, but night temperatures would drop just enough that he needed help staying warm. A Nalgene filled with boiling water and wrapped in a towel could keep him content all night.

He and his appetite grew swiftly. He was always a bit on the small side, but could put away quantities of food twice his size if given the chance. He never took kindly to a leash and the few attempts I made to break him in were futile. Yet he loved to wander from the confines of my home. After pestering the neighbors for a bit he would almost always make his way across the government parade ground to the forest just before the river and bridge leading out of Bogo. Other dogs would come through the forest and neighborhood but he carried himself in a way that suggested it was his turf. If at anytime I was coming back from work or play he would see me from across the parade ground and come sprinting back home, jumping all over me the entire way, no doubt hoping I had brought back his next meal.

Smaller than most dogs he was also the fiercest I've ever seen. It may be slightly demented, but I chuckle when thinking he probably still haunts the dreams of many children in the Garre and Marouare neighborhoods of Bogo. Theft happens from time to time in town, but if the perpetrators ever considered taking their chances on my house they quickly changed their minds when approaching the wall. He looked like a midget dingo but sounded like something that could do serious damage. Unexpected guests were not welcome in his opinion.

Giving him his meals everyday, I had about a half second to remove my hand from the dish before he would rip it to shreds. But let's not focus on the little bastard's hornary side. Often, just before the sun would go down on Bogo I'd be in my chair reading a book on the porch. At whatever point he found me, he must have thought that I had done enough reading, and would gracelessly jump and claw his way into my lap to lay down. Uncomfortable for me, but judging by his wagging tail I don't think there was a more enjoyable part of his day.

I hear people say that a dog's personality mirrors that of his owner. In Timshel's defense I must say it is not true in this case. For such a ratty, half wild mongrel he had more personality than I could ever lay claim to. At turns nasty and just downright mean, around his owner he was the happiest and most affectionate dog around. Perhaps he knew what the life of an average Cameroonian dog was like and didn't want to upset me. Banishment to the alleys of Bogo was threatened on a number of occasions.

Many shoes and garments found their way into his jaws, and the little bugger would steal just about anything not tied down. Two papaya trees and an entire cluster of fresh herbs in my yard met their demise at his hands. Yet regardless of how serious the transgression, its hard to stay mad at a dog that would immediately flop over on his side and grovel at my feet for forgiveness. He got a little too good at it, as often times he would begin apologizing before I knew he had done anything wrong. Despite all the misbehavior, he never once pooped on the rug.

In closing I will say that I am fortunate to have had him, even if only for just over a year's time. I would also say that the Bogo community, while short a few chickens, was also a better place with Timshel on the prowl. He spent many days out and about and it is not unreasonable to believe that soon there will be some Timshel Jr.'s out on the streets. This possibility brings a smile to my face, but most likely a feeling of dread to local citizens.

Sadly I an writing this in another part of the country while on training/vacation. My friend back in village, after doing everything in his and the vet's power, informed me that Timshel lost a quick battle against a stomach and intestinal infection. Medication was given but unfortunately he was too far along at that point. My house guardian found him in the morning, and meaning no disrespect, tossed him in the woods. I felt bad requesting that someone go search out a dead dog, but asked that he be taken and buried properly. My friend and another volunteer so generously took care of it in my absence, burying him in the woods that he used to claim as his territory.

In a few day's time I'll return to Bogo. Not having a rambunctious dog there to greet me will be very strange. Yet once I get settled back into village life I'll make the short walk across the parade ground and into the woods where he used to play, eat his stolen chickens, hassle children, and do god only knows what else, just to make sure he's doing fine.

For a Cameroonian dog Timshel led one hell of a life. I take comfort in that, and I know he is in the next doggy life humping and stealing everthing he can find. So next time you are having a cold one pour a bit out for my homey, the Diamare Dingo, the Terror of Bogo, Timshel!

Currently on the road, but coming soon:

I am finishing up in a cyber cafe in Kumbo village here in the english speaking Northwest Region of Cameroon. Plenty to share with you but my time here is short. Look out for my next post where I will share with you long bus rides through the jungle, hiding from spear throwing jujus, and how not to get trampled in a frantic/running crowd of people. Take care of yourselves and I look forward to getting in contact again soon.

Cameroon In The News: April 2010

Africa has produced exceptional players, but not a World Cup-quality team (LA Times)

Piracy Cuts Oil Production in Cameroon, Threatens Future Investment (Voice of America)

Cameroon to give local players a chance (ESPN)

Cameroon opposition accuse Biya of poll rigging bid (Reuters)

Girl who fled forced prostitution in Cameroon failed by social workers (Telegraph)

Nigeria forces on alert after text message threats (Associated Press)

Cameroon soldiers punished for clash with civilians (Associated Press)